Chapter Ten
The breakfast room door swung open once more. Atticus glanced up from his plate of buttered toast and cold ham. He would likely have a letter or two from his parents or sister. There had been nothing in the morning post for him the past two days, not an entirely unusual occurrence.
Eyes widening, spine straightening, Atticus shot to his feet. “Mrs. Wh—Felicity.”
Framed by the ornately carved doorway, aglow in sunlight from the window opposite, stood his wife. Her inquisitive eyes swept over the beautiful breakfast room, hands clasped at her middle, before landing on him.
“Good morning, Atticus,” she said, taking a small step into the room.
Dozens of scenarios flashed through Atticus’s mind. Had he ever seen his wife look so hesitant? And why had she come here? Felicity had not once shared breakfast with Atticus. Surely, that could only mean that some terrible thing had come to pass.
“Good morning, Felicity,” Atticus repeated dumbly, struggling to grab a hold of himself.
“I thought I might join you for breakfast today, if that is not disagreeable to you.”
“Of course. Nothing would be more disagreeable.” Atticus squeezed his eyes shut in a mortified grimace. “I meant to say, nothing would be more agreeable…or perhaps, nothing would be disagreeable that involved you. In other words, yes, please join me.”
Atticus hung his head and gestured to the table, keeping his eyes closed, as his sputtering speech finally came to an end. He thought he had been growing closer with Felicity day by day. The increasing familiarity had done wonders to ease his nerves and his guilt. It had even inspired him to surprise her yesterday with an afternoon of strawberry picking.
Yesterday… Much had changed yesterday.
The light scraping of chair against floor broke Atticus free of his thoughts long enough to look up. His wife had taken her seat. Not at the other end of the table, but at his right hand.
“I thought I might sit here,” she said as she unfolded her napkin and laid it across her lap. “I know it is not proper, yet I cannot help thinking that if a husband and wife are inclined to be in the same room as each other at the very start of the morning, when no one is at their best, surely, they need not sit at such a great distance. How ever am I to converse with you from all that way? We might as well dine across the Channel.”
Seeing her so comfortable, so naturally a part of the room, as if she had met Atticus here every morning since their wedding, allowed his tensed legs to give way. He sank back down onto his own chair and chuckled.
“I am glad you wish to converse with me—though I do often think I would prefer a distance of the Channel when conversing with most people. If I may ask, why did you decide to take your breakfast here this morning?”
Felicity remained focused on selecting her items from the various platters before her. She remained equally focused on her plate as she began slicing at her ham.
“There is a matter I should like to discuss with you.”
Atticus tried to ignore the way his hope deflated. He had not even realized that he’d harbored any particular hope when he’d posed the question. After they discussed whatever Felicity had in mind, would she deign to share breakfast with Atticus tomorrow? Or the day after? Or ever again?
“I am happy to be of assistance in any way I can,” he answered, quickly downing a sip of tea. He should not have been greedy. They shared dinner together every evening, primarily alone and on occasion with Felicity’s sister, friends, and neighbors.
Yet there was something entirely different about seeing his wife at the start of his day, comfortable in her morning robe and slightly askew cap. The locks of blonde that peeked out were still curled tightly around bits of cloth. To share the morning meal with one’s wife was a privilege, Atticus knew. He had never been more certain of that.
Felicity continued cutting her food into smaller and smaller morsels, still without looking at her husband. “Now that I am to be mistress of my own home when we leave behind Bainbridge and Myhill Lodge, I have been considering what alterations I would like to make to our future house and grounds.”
“Indeed, anything you wish,” Atticus answered, his spirits rising a little at the hint of enthusiasm in her lilting voice. “As soon as I am certain of when we are to depart, I will write ahead to ensure the completion of your desires is in progress when we arrive. What shall be your first directive as mistress?”
“Cornflowers.”
“Cornflowers?”
“Indeed.” Felicity buried her face behind her cup.
“Then cornflowers you shall have,” Atticus promised. He very well might have turned every lawn, field, and farm into cornflowers if she asked—and if their gardeners and tenants did not revolt.
“I did not know you had such a fondness for them,” he added. Strange how he always sought ways to expand upon Felicity’s words, to continue the conversation, when he could hardly think what to say when someone asked him his opinion on the weather.
“Fondness can develop without warning,” Felicity answered, a touch more curtly than Atticus had been expecting. “Cornflowers are nearly the exact shade of your eyes, did you know? I thought your new home should reflect its owner. Perhaps, if possible, you might see that they are planted within view of whichever rooms I shall occupy.”
With her announcement finished, Felicity ceased the overwrought preparation of her meal and stuck several minuscule bits of ham onto her fork. Before Atticus could reply, she paused, utensils suspended in the air.
“There is one more item.”
“Name it,” Atticus whispered. Could his wife’s words mean what he thought they meant?
To his immense surprise, Felicity finally brought her eyes to his once more. She blinked rapidly, her form rigid. She was…nervous.
“Setherwell has such a grand library, and I have recently begun to feel it a shame that I do not take better advantage of it. I would be happy to join you there today as well.” Felicity paused, her gaze darting away, fingers tight around her silverware.
“Of course, I do not wish to intrude or compromise the comfort of your private time and sacred space,” she added hurriedly.
Atticus almost laughed. He had borne witness to a vast array of his wife’s moods since their lives had become entangled. This apprehensive shyness was quite novel and unbearably endearing.
“It would be my absolute pleasure to share my private time and sacred space with you, Felicity.”
At the sound of her name on his lips, still so foreign to them both, she looked up.
“In fact, I have been spending rather more time outside my library than usual because…I have been enjoying spending it with you, wherever that might be. I have recently begun to feel it a shame that I do not take better advantage of the fresh air as you are so fond of doing, especially now that summer is giving way to autumn.”
For the first time that morning, Atticus’s wife gave a true smile. “It seems we have both been positively influencing one another.”
“I quite agree,” Atticus said, returning her smile. “Now, tell me more of your plans for the cornflowers. Do you have dimensions or a particular arrangement in mind?”
The remainder of the morning meal passed with lighthearted, meandering discussions that began with cornflowers and somehow wound their way to their first memories of tasting Gunter’s famous ices.
“I still cannot believe your first ice flavor was artichoke.” Felicity giggled, the merry sound reverberating through the breakfast room as they rose from their chairs.
Atticus’s laugh joined hers and they instinctively looped arms, starting toward the door. “As I said, my older cousin put me to a dare and would have boxed my ears all day had I refused. Such a prospect is terrifying to a little boy… Only slightly less terrifying than the taste of artichoke, I now know.”
Felicity’s giggle erupted into a bellow that caused a pair of maids by the stairs at the end of the hall to jump. “Heavens, forgive me.” She gasped, fanning her face with her free hand. “Artichoke truly is terrifying, isn’t it? What a brave lad you were, young Atticus!”
“I will have you know that my preferred flavor of ice is now a light, sensible—”
“Do not say vanilla.”
Atticus’s comfortable smile widened with every slow step they took. “Lavender, in fact.”
The lady’s neat brows rose as she looked up at her husband. “Lavender is a respectable flavor.”
“And vanilla is not?”
“Perhaps too respectable, which is why no one orders it,” Felicity replied with a frown, turning her gaze to the ground as they ascended to the floor above. “It was the only flavor the viscountess allowed Mercy or me to request when she sent us off to Gunter’s in gentlemen’s carriages. She said it was plain enough not to distract us from simpering and batting our lashes. I am afraid I have come to despise it as a result.”
That heavy, sympathetic ache in Atticus’s chest returned at the cold pain that hardened Felicity’s normally expressive, inviting eyes. The more he heard of Lady Eldmar—who had not called on them or extended any invitations to them since the wedding, a rather remarkable feat, considering the proximity of their estates—the more deeply Atticus came to appreciate his parents’ loving kindness and acceptance.
“She has not visited,” he started slowly, glancing at Felicity from the corner of his eye.
He could never determine if inquiring when the topic arose would cause his wife pain or provide a measure of relief. The risk of causing pain had always outweighed the potential benefit. Such was always the case in Atticus’s mind.
But he longed to know. He longed to understand his wife’s heart, even the dark parts she hid behind questions like the one she had asked him yesterday and on the day of their engagement had been made official. Something inside Atticus nudged him with the realization that Felicity might have been hoping for him to prod without knowing it herself.
“No, she has not,” Felicity replied with a shrug of one shoulder as they came to the next landing. “Forgive me, Atticus. I should have warned you that your new parents would forget both our existences the moment they departed the wedding breakfast.
“I have never expected that either of them would care to remain connected with us. My mother sees no reason to visit my eldest sister all the way in Northumberland unless Hope produces another grandchild or her husband claims his dukedom. And to think she is already mother to four and a marchioness! As for Father, well, he only had less to do with us because it is primarily a mother’s duty to see her children settled. If not for that obligation, I doubt we should have seen the woman again once she’d delivered us into the care of Nanny.”
As they approached the library, Atticus slowed his steps. “I am terribly sorry, Felicity.”
She stopped and turned to face him. “Whatever for?”
“That you have never known the love and care of a parent.”
Felicity stretched her elegant neck, rising to her full height as if challenging Atticus, yet there was no fight in her eyes.
“I have never required it. I have Mercy, and my friends, and…”
Her gaze drifted down. It lingered on Atticus’s mouth. Heat simmered under his skin, a different kind than he normally experienced. It was welcome, enjoyable. The hand resting atop hers slowly tightened.
“Does it not bother you?” he asked, extremely aware of the warmth of his own breath against her forehead.
This was important. This was an opportunity to forge a deeper bond with his partner. Atticus could not lose his composure in this intoxicating haze flooding his mind that bore a striking resemblance to the cinnamon notes of her perfume.
“Why should it bother me?” Felicity replied, her gaze slowly wandering across Atticus’s face. He did not mind the examination. Her eyes did not feel intrusive. It was intimate, but not uncomfortable.
“Because you speak as though it does.”
Felicity pulled away. “I speak factually.”
Atticus held firm. He did not remove his gaze. “At times, I hear tones other than fact.”
“Such as?” his wife retorted weakly.
“Hurt. Anger. Resentment… Grief,” Atticus answered, each word couched in compassion.
Felicity took another step back, their arms unlinking. Atticus’s hand trailed down her arm, catching her fingers in a loose grip. He would always leave room for her to flee. Instead, she squeezed, not tightly, but enough to inform Atticus that his presence continued to be welcome.
“What would it matter if I felt such things?” Felicity whispered. She stared up at him with large, beseeching eyes. “What would speaking about them change?”
“Yourself, primarily,” Atticus answered with surprising confidence. “Speaking of our thoughts and feelings may seem trivial when there are so many other pursuits to occupy one’s time, but it can never be a waste to unburden yourself to a friend’s willing ear and accept sympathy and comfort in return.
“Neither the undesirable circumstances of the past or present nor the worrisome circumstances of the future may be altered, but I believe your heart will be the lighter for it. That alone makes it a worthwhile endeavor, I think, even if not always the most comfortable.”
Felicity narrowed her eyes at him, extracted her hand, and crossed her arms over the muffled collar of her robe. The strange confidence that had overtaken Atticus faltered.
“Why do I sense that you have not always been mindful to heed your own advice?”
The twist in Atticus’s stomach eased. He chuckled and glanced down at his shoes. “Too right you are, wife, too right you are.”
“Naturally.”
“But I do hope to amend that in the future…with your assistance.” Boldness returning, Atticus extended his hand once more. “I believe the library would be an ideal location.”
A heartbeat later, Felicity slipped her hand into his. No words passed between them until they settled into the chairs in Atticus’s corner, which he’d had finished as closely as possible in the style of his library at Myhill.
Atticus began. “Why do you hide your pain surrounding your parents’ neglect behind indifference?”
Forcing herself not to break her gaze, Felicity chewed her bottom lip. “Because…Because feigning indifference is easier than admitting that, sometimes, I do wish my parents cared for me…loved me. Perhaps, in a sense, I am terrified of them ever discovering that. Sometimes I imagine Lord Eldmar’s bored confusion and Lady Eldmar’s haughty sneer if they ever learned how I truly felt. Nothing would be more pathetic than to claw at my mother’s hem begging for her notice when she has made it abundantly clear that she wants nothing to do with me.”
A quiet sob racked Felicity’s frame. The wretched sound etched itself deep onto Atticus’s aching heart. His fingers twitched where they rested against his knee, longing to reach for her. Would it be too much, especially given the already significant changes that had occurred so recently?
Without his realizing, Atticus’s fingers acted of their own accord. They slipped across the space between the chairs, across the back of Felicity’s hand, until they gently enclosed it. Her cries slowed to a stop, eyes opening to meet his.
“You, divine creature, will never again have to beg for love, for respect. That, I promise you, for as long as we share a house and a life…”
Forever, Atticus finished silently to himself. He hoped that, somehow, Felicity had heard. Based on the flash of color across her cheeks as she tore her gaze away, perhaps she had. At least she did not wipe her tears away, for which Atticus was strangely grateful. She had done enough hiding.
Onto his heart he also etched this sublime image, of his wife, Felicity—so very deserving of her namesake—seated here in his library, in the very spot he felt safest. Most himself. The passionate movements of her hands, the swift transformation of emotion across her lovely face, the light in her eyes when they landed upon him, the trust in her voice as she offered Atticus insights she had only shared with her twin. And when she finished, she directed gently inquisitive questions to Atticus. They became easier and easier to answer with increasing depth.
Nothing had ever felt so right as sharing this crucial moment with Felicity in his sanctuary. In fact, she already felt as much a part of it as the books themselves did. Perhaps it would never again feel right without her in it.