Chapter Nine
Every muscle in Felicity’s body twitched with apprehension—particularly her fingers, enclosed as they were by her husband’s hand. Late-morning sunlight, diluted by gray-tinged clouds, penetrated the darkness behind her closed lids.
As Felicity had finished breakfast in her bedroom, as she always did—one of the few advantages of being a married woman, she’d found—Hammond had informed her that Mr. Wheadon requested her presence in the back foyer, dressed for a walk. Never in their month of marriage had he made a request rather than a suggestion. When she had arrived and at every subsequent query, Mr. Wheadon refused to inform her of their destination or purpose.
Though Felicity loved surprises, she owed the sputters in her heart to a different source. Mr. Wheadon’s fingers squeezed as he led her across the trimmed lawn.
“We are nearly there.”
Felicity could only swallow and nod, too focused on the sensation of their joined hands. It was the boldest display of affection her husband had offered thus far despite growing closer and learning pieces about each other’s interests and histories over the past month.
Not that she had been particularly encouraging, Felicity admitted to herself.
In those first few days after their engagement, when the rage and despair were at their freshest, Felicity had been so certain that she would never desire anything to do with her husband, no matter how soft-spoken and kind.
Now she found herself reveling in the feeling of his hand around hers, a late-summer breeze laced with a faint aroma, and the promise of a surprise before her.
A moment later, Mr. Wheadon released Felicity’s hand and came to a stop. The hint of impending chill in the air cut straight through her at the sudden removal of his closeness.
Almost in the same instant, a column of steam raced from the base of her spine all the way up to her face as he instead came to stand behind her. Felicity’s back brushed against her husband’s firm chest with her next inhale. His arms encircled her and her mind went blank. Large hands hovered just over her closed eyes, so close, Felicity swore she could feel them on her skin.
“I once read in a book that a delay of a few seconds will create greater suspense,” he whispered into her ear. If he felt the tendons in her neck tightening or the heat rising to her cheeks, he feigned his ignorance exceedingly well.
Urgent pleas balanced on the edge of Felicity’s tongue, on the verge of tipping across the threshold of her lips and demanding that the gentleman release her. In one month of marriage, they had never stood this close before. How was Felicity to endure it even for a few seconds?
“Here we are,” Mr. Wheadon cried just when Felicity thought her mind would break, throwing his hands into the air and stepping back.
Felicity’s heartbeat refused to slow as her eyes flew open. The most wonderful sight stretched before her. A grin overtook her features and she momentarily forgot her traitorous disappointment at the loss of Mr. Wheadon’s arms around her.
“Strawberries!” she cheered, bobbing up and down on her toes.
Indeed, Felicity had been so overwhelmed that she had completely disregarded that familiar scent she’d noticed earlier—the sweet, delicious scent of her favorite food. Surely, Felicity must have walked into a dream. A giant field with rows upon rows of juicy strawberries, ripe for the picking, could only exist in a dream.
“I am glad Miss Abbott made mention when she called on you the other day that you love strawberries. These are the last of the year.”
“All this time and I had no idea Setherwell boasted such a plethora! Then again, perhaps it is best that I was ignorant. Had I known, I would have trespassed here every day during harvest.” She laughed.
Another laugh, resonant and real, joined hers. Mr. Wheadon had laughed. It was the only thing that could have distracted Felicity from her strawberry heaven. She spun around just as a gust of wind tousled his dark hair.
“At least you need not trespass now. Each and every strawberry belongs to you if you should wish it…though I do hope you might allow me one or two.”
Her husband’s eyes sparkled with joy, handsome creases appearing around his mouth, as he…teased her. Mr. Wheadon was actually teasing Felicity. Her grin returned. Without answering, she picked up her green skirts and trotted the remaining few yards to the nearest row. She trusted Mr. Wheadon would follow.
The delicious smell nearly made Felicity dizzy as she plucked a plump fruit from its raised bed, red staining her green, lace gloves. When she looked over her shoulder, she found that her husband had indeed followed, catching up easily with his long strides.
“Here you are, then,” she announced, chin in the air.
Mr. Wheadon’s gaze darted back and forth from Felicity to the strawberry in her hand as she inched it closer to his face ever so slowly. He looked utterly bewildered and unprepared. The corner of Felicity’s mouth pulled up.
Just as the tip of the fruit grazed Mr. Wheadon’s lips, Felicity swerved the strawberry to her own mouth. She took a generous bite, giggling when a trail of juice dripped down her chin, and brandished the remainder before the man’s face like a trophy.
He laughed again, even brighter this time. Every other thought fled Felicity’s mind. She had not thought she would be blessed enough to hear his unrestrained laughter again so soon. The warm, full sound and the lighthearted smile that accompanied it distracted Felicity from his movements.
Thoughtful as always, Mr. Wheadon dabbed at his wife’s face with a kerchief he had produced without her notice. Protected by the thin, white cloth, his finger brushed delicate circles along her chin and jawline. Felicity froze. If she moved her head even a little, her lips would brush against his exposed skin.
“There,” he said as he tucked the kerchief back into his pocket.
Before Felicity could muster a sensible thought, Mr. Wheadon stunned her yet again. The gentleman stole the strawberry from Felicity’s loose grip, right before her very eyes. With a bashful smile, he took a small bite.
Felicity gasped, eyes as round as saucers, clapping both hands over her mouth in exaggerated shock.
“Good heavens, p-please forgive me,” Mr. Wheadon stammered, dropping the stem to the ground. Closing his mouth belatedly, he wrung his hands together.
She truly could not help herself now. A laugh burst forth from deep within Felicity’s chest. Her poor husband was not yet familiar with her penchant for dramatics.
Forgetting all else, Felicity took Mr. Wheadon’s hand and intertwined their fingers. “My reaction was of impressed shock, not offended shock,” she clarified. “Though, if such grandiose displays do not suit you, I do not mind tempering them.”
He sighed with relief. The worry melted from his expression, replaced by his innate kindness. “May I make a request of you, Mrs. Wheadon?”
“Certainly,” Felicity agreed before the last word had left his lips.
With their hands locked like this, with his eyes glancing at her mouth, Felicity might have granted any request on his behalf. Gone were her vehement claims that submitting to any man would be entirely unbearable.
But Mr. Wheadon was not just any man, was he? Not anymore. Perhaps he never had been.
“Please promise me that you will inform me immediately should I ever do anything to offend or upset you,” he continued, his voice low, his breath warm against her face. “It is the absolute last thing I wish to do after everything you have sacrificed because of me.”
Felicity’s heart dropped as guilt contorted his expression. She tightened her grip. “If anyone carries blame for this, it is I.”
And perhaps Lady Swan carried the greatest share of blame for filling Felicity’s head with the idea of Mr. Wheadon. At least during those moments, diminishing in intensity and frequency, when Felicity most bitterly regretted her fate, she found it easier to direct her anger at her unknown matchmaker.
That was far preferable to examining her own long-standing pattern of behavior which had contributed to her rash decision and disregard for potential consequences until it had been too late.
Before Mr. Wheadon could protest, Felicity dropped his hand, turned on her heel, and began marching down the row of ripe fruits.
The constant contradiction of her feelings had been driving her closer and closer to the edge of madness over these past several weeks. Felicity doubted the hot resentment she felt toward her mother would ever truly disappear, yet she could not deny that her general displeasure had begun to lessen since her wedding day.
Was she merely resigned to her new life or had Felicity begun to truly enjoy being married to Mr. Wheadon? Or did she simply feel indebted to the great effort he had undertaken to ensure her comfort at every turn?
Felicity shook her head, her ribbon-trimmed bonnet protesting. After a lifetime of knowing her precise opinion on everything, she detested this loop of questions and the new considerations each one produced.
She may have continued marching clear to the other end of the estate if not for the hand that grabbed her wrist. With a touch too much force, Mr. Wheadon spun her around to face him. Felicity’s booted feet clashed against his. She stumbled into a partial embrace. The scent of amber nearly eradicated all memory of strawberry.
“For you,” said Mr. Wheadon as he leapt back, thrusting a small, cloth-lined woven basket at her. “I had a footman leave it here should you wish to collect some yourself.”
“Thank you.” Felicity accepted the basket, staring down at it, before unceremoniously dropping it onto the dirt path that lined the row. She looked her husband square in the eye. “Why…are you so kind to me?”
She had asked nearly the same thing on the day of their engagement announcement. Even nearly two months since, Felicity still could not make sense of it. Of him.
Mr. Wheadon frowned. “You are my wife.”
That was not enough. It was not deep enough. Glaring, some strange frustration building inside her, Felicity shook her head. She took a bold step toward her husband, toe to toe, tilting her head back to force his eyes to remain on hers.
“If any other man had found himself in such an arrangement, he would view me and treat me as an inconvenient accident at best and a vile destroyer of his life at worst. But not you. And I cannot understand why…when you have every reason to resent me, as surely other men would in your shoes.”
Felicity’s words hung in the air for several heartbeats. The urge to change topic, to jest, to flee itched in the back of her mind until Mr. Wheadon broke her gaze. Shadows of gloom turned his eyes darker.
“I will admit that any lady unfortunate enough to find herself shackled to me would be treated with kindness,” he started, keeping his face turned away, though he made no move to increase the distance between them.
Almost without realizing it, Felicity found her brows furrowing. Unfortunate enough? How could a man like Mr. Wheadon speak as though not every lady would be blessed to have such a husband? Before she could begin to wonder at her instinctual reaction, Mr. Wheadon continued.
“But I will also admit that I have found myself enjoying and appreciating your particular company. Every day with you has had its share of surprise and amusement. I have never had the pleasure of meeting a more interesting, exciting, free-spirited person. All those advantages help the kindness to feel…effortless.”
Pride ignited in Felicity’s heart, a natural consequence of her love of flattery. Her mind continued to rebel, examining his words for falsehoods or unexpressed feelings. “Do all those ‘advantages’ not irritate you?”
Mr. Wheadon’s lips pressed into a hard line, his sadness visibly deepening. “Not in the least. In fact, you have begun to coax me out of my comfortable routine. I have not smiled or laughed as much in my life as I have since I came to share a home with you. Mama and Papa have even noted that my letters are cheerier. They are certainly longer, because you give me so many fascinating things to record.”
When he paused, voice fading on the breeze and fingers fidgeting with his coat, Felicity tapped the toe of his boot with hers. Mr. Wheadon glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Felicity tapped her foot again, a silent encouragement.
The man exhaled, lifting his head to look far beyond Felicity. “I have already grown quite accustomed to your presence. And, if I may confess a little selfishness, I am glad your vibrancy will always be near to bring color to my otherwise mostly gray life.” With a tentative smile, Mr. Wheadon gestured toward the fields bursting with green and red all around them.
Felicity was far more than flattered now. As she stared back at Mr. Wheadon, her muscles loosening and her mind slowing, she realized she was on the verge of being completely enchanted.
Aside from her twin and their friends, no one had ever told Felicity in so many words that they enjoyed her company and longed for more of it. But they had known her for her entire life and, by virtue of sheer exposure, more readily overlooked the oddities and flaws at which every stranger turned up their nose.
Until Mr. Wheadon. The thought brought an unexpected sense of comfort. It would be nice, Felicity supposed, if the person tied to her forever did not hate her…liked her, even.
As if hearing her thoughts, Mr. Wheadon returned his gaze to Felicity’s face. A deep, rosy hue spread across his cheeks, yet his eyes remained firmly on hers.
“Might I make another request?” he asked quietly.
Felicity could only nod, terrified of what nonsense might come flying out of her mouth with all these confusing thoughts and sensations vying for her attention, her acceptance.
“Might we…might we now call each other by our Christian names?”
The question nearly took Felicity’s breath away. To use another’s given name, without the safeguard of titles, was an intimacy all its own. He wanted that with her?
“I thought, perhaps, since we have been married for a little more than a month now and have deepened our knowledge of each other… At least, that is my hope, but of course if it is far too impertinent of an assumption—Heavens, this was all terribly impertinent, now that I think—”
Instinctively, Felicity silenced her husband by taking both his hands in hers. She swung them side to side gently.
“I think that is a brilliant idea, Atticus. Nothing would make me happier in this moment…other than filling my basket to the brim with these perfect strawberries.”
Atticus laughed, comfortable though not as loudly as before. She felt relieved to ease the intensity between them. It was not a negative intensity, yet all the same, it had threatened to overtake Felicity’s senses.
For the first time in her life, she did not wish to say something she might come to regret. She had always claimed that she would never regret a single word she uttered because she ensured every word was the truth, and one should never regret the truth.
But, with Lady Swan’s letter always in the back of her mind, how could she be certain if anything she thought or felt now truly originated in her? Until she was certain, Felicity would not risk saying anything that could hurt a soul as sweet as Mr. Wheadon—Atticus.
She knew she must do whatever she could to protect a heart that had been so accustomed to anticipating pain that pain had become its constant state.
“Please lead the way,” said Atticus, sweeping an arm out before Felicity. “Ah, I forgot to mention. This one that I shall carry is for you to fill as well.” He indicated an identical basket that sat neatly beside Felicity’s.
A wave of pleasant heat rushed through her from head to toe. Would she ever become used to her husband’s kind consideration? Perhaps someday, but certainly not today.
Angling her bonnet to keep her traitorous emotions out of view, Felicity quickly bent at the knees and snatched up her own overturned basket before the gentleman could. She fussed with brushing off bits of grass and dirt from it, forcing herself to breathe at a normal pace, or at least as normal as she could achieve at present.
Felicity turned to Atticus, straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and offered her arm. “Shall we?” she asked, praying her chipper tone would mask enough of the tumult beneath the surface.
“We shall.” Atticus accepted with a grin.
He took Felicity’s arm and linked it with his, settling her hand on his forearm and his hand over hers. He kept it there as they leisurely walked up and down the strawberry field, mostly collected save for these rows Atticus had set aside particularly for her.
Everything slowed down around and within Felicity. The storm of her rebellious, temperamental nature stilled. And she…did not mind. She did not grow bored or yearn for the next adventure—or misadventure, rather, as they often turned out. For once, no excitement or stimulation could induce Felicity to break this comfortable contentment.
With Atticus beside her, life had become peaceful. Perhaps she had not realized that she did require some periods of peace and calm until she had no choice but to attempt it.
What else might she be on the verge of realizing? For now, settled into a comfortable silence, Felicity did not wish to worry about all that. Something about this already felt entirely natural.
Against all reason, something about Atticus himself felt entirely natural.