Chapter Eleven
“Felicity, there you are,” Atticus called with a sigh of relief. “I was afraid I would not find you in time.”
Felicity looked up from her rather creative watercolor interpretation of the basket of fruits perched on the stool before her.
“Look, Atticus,” she called in return, waving him into the infrequently used east sitting room. “A little orange bled into my grapes, and now I have orange grapes. Then I thought, why should apples only be red or green? And now I have purple apples.”
Hands clasped behind his back and wearing an intrigued smile, her husband crossed the small room. He peered over her shoulder at her easel. “Innovative, indeed. Have you considered green cherries, perhaps?”
“An inspired idea!” Felicity laughed, grinning up at him unabashedly.
Ever since their heartfelt conversation in the library a few days ago—the first of several since—she truly had felt lighter, freer, just as Atticus had promised.
And he had listened so intently and offered such soothing, tender words. He had accepted every bitter remark, every pained remembrance, with complete understanding. Knowing that another soul—besides her sister—acknowledged her suffering and did not find weakness in it…the sensation was incredible.
Could it be possible to feel like this all the time? Seeing her husband’s kind eyes staring back at her like that, Felicity knew that if anyone could make such a thing possible, it was Atticus.
“Ah, but you said you were looking for me? You are nearly late to meet Sebastian,” Felicity prompted when he drifted into silent thought, a charmingly common occurrence.
Atticus nodded, his dark-brown hair somehow already windswept. “Yes, I hoped to find you and deliver these.”
From behind his back, Atticus brandished a bouquet of stunning cornflowers. Felicity gasped. Her paintbrush slipped from her fingers and landed with a faint click upon the wood floor.
“The last wild cornflowers of the season,” Atticus continued as Felicity’s fingers reached out slowly and accepted them. “I know Mr. Harrowsmith and I are to assess Setherwell’s grounds today for the upcoming pheasant hunt, but I must confess I thought to—”
“To prepare yourself in advance,” Felicity guessed. She hid the knowing smile that longed to grace her lips behind the delicate, blue blooms.
Atticus chuckled and bowed his head. “Precisely. My wife is extraordinarily astute.”
“Normally, I would say that my husband is too generous, but in this instance, he has esteemed me exactly.”
Atticus’s chuckle became a true laugh. Lines deepened at the corners of his eyes and his broad shoulders shook. Felicity joined, their voices blending in surprising harmony.
“Do inform me when you tire of hearing such shameless bragging,” Felicity said as the burst of amusement trailed away.
“Never.”
That single word, spoken so firmly, jolted down Felicity’s spine. She angled her head back to peer up at him properly, curls sweeping across her cheeks.
“Do you mean to say that you will never inform me?”
To Felicity’s surprise, Atticus tilted his head to one side in an expression almost approaching mischief. “I cannot inform you if I never tire of hearing it, can I?”
The leaps and twists and spins Felicity’s heart performed in her chest nearly threatened to force her to call upon that conventional womanly plight of a dizzy spell.
Her husband possessed no justification for looking at her in such a dashing, teasing manner. And when he said he would always accept her silly bravado? How was Felicity’s heart, mired in her stubborn fears, meant to withstand that?
“Sir, Mr. Harrowsmith has arrived and is waiting in the foyer,” Lambert called from the doorway.
“I will be there momentarily,” Atticus responded over his shoulder before returning his attention to Felicity, gaze dropping to the flowers she pressed to her chest. “I found them near the river that cuts through the property to the south. I did not want you to wait another year to enjoy them.”
Bowing, Atticus took his leave, fingers flexing at his sides with his nerves. Lydia’s dear husband had gone quite out of his way to put his neighbor, and fellow recently married man, at ease. Felicity knew Atticus genuinely appreciated the camaraderie, even if his anxiety could not be quieted completely around his new friend.
A small smile warmed Felicity’s features. She would have to find an opportunity to thank Sebastian for including Atticus in the area’s gentlemanly events in ways that suited his reserved nature. She would also have to thank Lydia for marrying such a sensible man.
Longing tugged at her, the longing for her dearest companions. So much was changing so quickly within Felicity and she had not yet uttered a word of it to any of them. Not even Mercy. Though she enjoyed tea with her twin almost every day and had ventured out on a crisp picnic with Ellen and Clara two days past, Felicity could keep these feelings to herself no longer.
Abandoning her painting supplies, Felicity raced upstairs, raising the dark-blue embroidered hem of her dress clear of her rushing feet. Barely breathing, she wrote four simple notes and dispatched them across Bainbridge with her speediest servants.
*
“Mrs. Atticus Wheadon,”announced the Abbott family’s butler not half an hour later.
Without a word, Mercy flew to the drawing room door and looped her arm around her sister’s waist, pulling her in close.
“Dearest Felicity, what is this urgent business?” Isabel asked from her seat in the center of the room, her green eyes flashing over her friend’s face and figure.
“Did you receive another letter from Lady Swan like Lydia did last Season?” Clara burst out, still bundled in her muslin shawl.
“What is that you have there?” Ellen asked as she neatly folded her own shawl over an arm.
“Let us all take a moment to breathe,” Lydia reminded everyone, still untying her bonnet.
Felicity and Mercy crossed to the red, paisley sofa opposite Isabel and sank down. “Thank you all for coming,” said Felicity.
Isabel gripped her chin thoughtfully. “This is rather reminiscent of that early morning summons we received from Lydia last Season.”
“Have you brought us flowers? How sweet, Felicity!” Clara sighed, skipping to the chair beside Isabel, her shawl fluttering about her.
Embarrassment flooded every inch of Felicity’s body. She lowered her head as if inhaling the fragrance of her cornflowers, thankful she had thought to bring them. They would provide a shield for her crimson face.
“Felicity?” Mercy prodded quietly as Lydia perched beside Isabel and Ellen situated herself in the chair to Felicity’s right.
How could she say this to her friends when she had not even fully said it to herself?
The longer Felicity sat and stared down into her bouquet, the graver the looks on her companions’ faces became. Silence and Felicity did not often collaborate. At least she had not thought so.
The more time Felicity spent in the quietude of the library with Atticus, the more she came to appreciate its merits. Particularly because Atticus never attempted to force silence upon her, no matter how focused he might be on his own pursuits or thoughts.
Lydia sighed. “You need not force yourself to—”
“I love my husband.”
Every eye in the room, already transfixed on Felicity, widened to the size of the fruit tarts plated on the low table before them. Clara’s mouth dropped open while Ellen covered hers with both hands. The other girls exchanged surprised glances.
“I-I think I do, at least,” Felicity added into the stunned stillness. “I am starting to is what I mean.” Her cheeks flamed and she lowered her head into the protection of the cornflowers once more.
“Sister, that is wonderful,” Mercy said, forcing one of Felicity’s hands away from the bouquet and holding it in her lap. “Is it not?”
“I must confess…” Isabel began. When Felicity lifted her eyes, curious, Isabel seemed to think better of it. Biting her lip, she looked away.
“Out with it,” Felicity demanded without removing her face from behind her floral shield.
Frowning, Isabel returned her gaze to Felicity. “I must confess to forgetting, at times, that you did not already love Mr. Wheadon.”
Felicity shot upright, scrunching her nose. “How dare you?!”
The ladies chuckled, the tension dissipating. Isabel lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug, her smile a touch sheepish.
“Forgive me, Felicity. I meant no offense. But perhaps our friends will agree to some extent, that the way you speak of him, the way you are around him… It is easy to forget the events preceding your marriage. The more time passes, the more you give the appearance of a happy new wife. Is there anyone else who will support my claim?”
Isabel and Felicity both looked about their intimate gathering, each having their suspicions confirmed. Felicity slumped forward slightly. It was her turn to gape in shock. “Do not tell me you all…”
“I suppose, now that Isabel mentions…”
“Only very recently, mind you—”
“Can one truly ever understand the behaviors of another?”
“Seeing you happy brings us happiness, especially after those painful, uncertain days,” said Mercy after the others had mumbled their own confessions. She squeezed Felicity’s hand, nestled amongst the folds of her pelisse.
Felicity waved her bouquet and smiled at her cherished friends. “I am not truly dismayed, I promise. After a moment of reflection—a skill I have lately begun to develop thanks to Atticus’s influence—I realize it is amusingly naive of me to think that I have been successfully disguising my true feelings from you who know me so well. And, truly, when do I ever spare anyone the full force of my feelings? It is no surprise I could not hide them, for I have had precious little practice.”
Relieved laughter rippled through the drawing room. Lydia regained her composure soonest and fixed Felicity with a knowing look. She had indeed experienced a very similar journey just last Season. If any of them understood her predicament, it was Lydia.
“We are indeed exceedingly happy for you, as Mercy said,” said the eldest of their group, her vicarious joy softening angular features. “Congratulations, dear Felicity. Your husband is a good man in the deepest sense of the word.”
“As I said, I am only beginning to feel the potential stirrings of love,” Felicity reminded them with a firm nod.
“But beginning is the most difficult part!” Clara cried, pink tinging her fair skin, hands clasped over her heart. “They call it falling in love for a reason. Nature must take its course. Once you begin the fall, how ever can you hope to stop it?”
Felicity certainly could not hope to refrain from laughing at her romantic friend’s enthusiasm. “I am afraid I must be allowed to go at my own pace, sweet Clara. The thought has only just crossed my mind this morning. Well, as a real thought…not as a feeling for which I could find some other rationalization.”
“This morning?” Mercy asked. “What occurred this morning?”
Looking down at the lovely, little wild cornflowers, Felicity flushed yet again. “You will all think me mad for demanding an immediate audience over such a small thing.”
“When it comes to love, nothing can be small,” said Ellen softly, brown curls perfectly framing her heart-shaped face. “Love elevates the ordinary and expands the limits of that which the human spirit believes itself capable. Therefore, nothing done in love can ever be small.”
The elder Gardiner sister finished with a deep inhale. They observed their quietest companion with tender admiration.
Felicity broke the silence with an awed chuckle. “Heavens, when did my friends become such poets and philosophers?”
“Ellen is correct,” Isabel added. “You are at liberty to share with us, Felicity—but only if you truly wish. It is understandable that such emotions be shared by degrees when one is still coming to terms with them oneself. You know none of us would dream of judging your heart’s path.”
Felicity sighed and threw up a hand in defeat. “Yet another fount of wisdom here, I see. But still, thank you, Isabel, all of you.” She paused and turned her gaze to each lady for a meaningful moment.
“These cornflowers,” she said under her breath, her voice trailing off as her mind transported her not only to the east sitting room of that morning, but to the events of the past several days since their strawberry-picking excursion—which her friends had thought exceedingly thoughtful and worthy of abundant praise.
“A few mornings ago, the morning after the strawberries, I joined Atticus in the breakfast room for the first time. I informed him that when we arrived at our new home I would like cornflowers planted. He of course agreed and we spent quite some time discussing my vision for the addition. And earlier today, he delivered these to me.”
Felicity paused once more and smiled down at the blue blooms that were so much like looking into her husband’s eyes. “He went out across the grounds, searching for them. He did not want me to wait to have my cornflowers.”
The other ladies sighed in unison, even the normally rigid Lydia, who had become far more open about her love for love since finding hers.
“What a considerate, attentive gentleman.” Clara sniffled. She touched the corners of her eyes with the edge of her absentmindedly discarded shawl as Isabel reached over from the sofa and patted her shoulder.
“I do not understand it,” Felicity mumbled to herself in wonder, brushing a finger over the perfect, fragile petals.
“You do not need to,” answered Lydia.
Felicity looked up, enveloped in a haze of growing certainty now that she had said the words aloud. It was strange, not being in total command of herself—and not hating it.
“There will come a point where all the understanding in the world will not persuade you to take another step. From there on, you must allow your heart to take the lead,” Lydia said with an encouraging glow in her eyes.
Mercy’s fingers tightened around Felicity’s once more, drawing her twin’s attention. “But you may do so at your own pace, as you said,” she reminded her. “You are so used to thinking one way, it is only natural that it should take some time to begin accepting another way.”
“And it does not seem absurd to any of you? That he is so… And I am so… We are so—”
“Sister. Cease. Your. Rambling.” Mercy squeezed her hand at every punctuation for emphasis. “Goodness, how many times must I have said that since our days in the womb? Trust in us. We can see plain as day that you make each other happy. There is nothing else to consider.”
“Very well, then,” Felicity relented with a quiet laugh. “I suppose I should inform Atticus of my findings and discover if he, too, feels—”
“He does,” said the Gardiner sisters in unison. Their eyes widened as they stared at each other from across the room.
“Only Mercy and I are allowed to do that!” Felicity grumbled with a teasing pout as her friends burst into another round of merry laughter.
Since so much of their time had been occupied with discussion, leaving no opportunity for refreshments, Felicity remained for one cup of tea and a tart—made from Setherwell’s own strawberries, which its current mistress had generously gifted to every beloved Bainbridge neighbor. Invigorated in body and encouraged in spirit, Felicity bid her friends farewell with promises of a satisfactory report to follow.
Atticus had proven himself correct once more. Allowing herself to seek support and guidance from her loved ones did not eradicate her hardships or absolve her from doing what was necessary, yet it did ease the burden considerably to know she faced nothing alone.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Wheadon. A letter for you, discovered on the doorstep.”
Indeed, Felicity was not alone. She froze at the front doors and stared at the small, folded sheet in the butler’s hands, pinched at the corners.
“Did no one see who delivered it?” she whispered, accepting the letter.
“I am afraid not, madam. Exceedingly odd, indeed.”
“Thank you, Lambert. Oh, have Mr. Wheadon and Mr. Harrowsmith returned?”
“Not yet, madam, but soon. They just sent word to have tea and sandwiches ready in twenty minutes.”
“Thank you,” Felicity called over her shoulder, already racing through the foyer, skirts bunched in one hand and letter in the other, bonnet dangling to one side. She thundered up the wide staircase, ignoring her staff’s surprised expressions, and slammed her bedroom door shut behind her.
Felicity flung herself onto her four-poster bed and, fingers trembling, turned the letter over. A swan announced itself proudly atop the purple seal. She wasted no time, tearing the single sheet open, eyes flying over every line.
On her next, much slower perusal, Felicity’s eyes lingered in the middle of the unexpected letter. She might have shuddered at the feeling of being observed if it were not so precisely what she needed to read.
“Perhaps you find it difficult to recognize love because you are so accustomed to being shown time and again that you are not worthy of it.
“Remember, not all express love in words and touch. Some pour every ounce of their love into every action, no matter how mundane or insignificant. Thoughtful care can reveal the depths of one’s heart more than any speech.”
Those words, and those of her friends, certainly revealed the depth of Felicity’s heart. It hammered in a strong, steady rhythm. Time slowed. Lady Swan’s scrawling letters swirled before her eyes.
Felicity had been certain that, unlike Lydia last Season, she would not hear from Lady Swan again, not with Felicity and her obvious match so quickly betrothed. Much like the viscountess, the anonymous matchmaker had disappeared from Felicity’s life the moment she had achieved her goal.
For reasons Felicity was only just beginning to understand, this letter validated a secretly vulnerable wound in her heart. Someone out there had recognized Felicity’s potential to overcome her fears and find happiness in the unlikeliest place. Someone out there was guiding her with wisdom, with patience.
She pressed the page to her chest. Whoever this woman was, however she came by her information, Felicity could now begin to acknowledge her skills.
In her stubbornness, she had clung to the possibility that Lydia and Sebastian’s happiness, wonderful though it might have been, was owed to a stroke of luck. Besides, all the Bainbridge ladies had more or less guessed long before last Season that one or both of them had harbored more than friendly affections for the other. Could Lady Swan truly be credited with genius for encouraging two lifelong friends to make their obvious feelings known?
Felicity’s fingers loosened. The letter fluttered down to the blanket. Feeling both weightless and more grounded than she had ever been, she found her feet carrying her to the nightstand, where the vase that had held her wedding bouquet now stood empty. It came to life once more with the refreshing presence of the cornflowers.
Vase in hand, Felicity walked in a dreamlike trance through the home she shared with Atticus. The time had come to acknowledge that Lady Swan had found their aching hearts and, by some mysterious intelligence, determined precisely how to align their paths.
When Felicity stepped into the library, she inhaled a deep, tranquil breath. It was like coming home within her home. Because she knew Atticus would be here. He was most of the time, in any case, but for today, Felicity was glad to have the library to herself for some time yet.
She walked through the generous room, looking up and down. At the shelves, each volume individually chosen with care to travel from its owner’s home. At the peppered marble fireplace that had seen increasing use, a sign of the passage of the time they had shared here thus far. At the snug corner that bore every sign of his presence in its frequent use—tea things strewn about, blanket stuffed in a pile behind the wingback chair, and stacks of books upon every available surface, walking surface included. He had told the staff, more than once, not to fuss with the library until he had gone to bed for the night.
And there was her chair, as she had taken to calling it without her knowledge. Its armrest nearly touched Atticus’s. Felicity eased into it. The plush cushions melded to her form. She set the vase on the circular table wedged between their chairs and waited.
“Felicity, there you are,” called Atticus’s quiet, warm voice after some unknown amount of time. It sent a wonderful shiver down Felicity’s spine.
As did the look of touched surprise as he cleared the last row of shelves, wide eyes landing on the lovely cornflowers in their vase. His small smile slowly spread into a grin.
“I am thrilled that you like them.”
“I…love them.”
Atticus’s gaze darted to his wife. He seemed to read the shift in her very being. “Felicity?”
“I love them so much that I could not but wish to share them with you. I thought to bring them here so that we might both enjoy their peaceful presence.”
Felicity’s husband took a deliberate step forward, then another, until he reached his chair. His knees nearly brushed hers as he turned to peer down at the blooms he had plucked from the riverbank.
His grin, endearing in its own right, softened into that contemplative half-smile Felicity had come to adore as he settled into his well-worn seat. She saw it often right here in this very room, and just as often during her daily walks, which had slowly become their daily walks.
Never had Felicity thought she would willingly spend so much time in a library. The hope of glimpsing that smile had certainly tempted her to while away an increasing number of late mornings, afternoons, evenings here.
Thankfully, Felicity never wanted for stimulation of her own when she did pass the hours in this comfortable scene. Atticus always seemed to know what type of books to suggest that would truly capture Felicity’s interests. In truth, reading was not half so odious a task when she was not being forced to assume the appearance of a broad intellect merely for the sake of attracting a respectable match.
Surprising Felicity, Atticus adjusted in his seat, perching at the very edge. He propped his elbows atop his knees, extending his large hands toward her. No second thought was necessary. Felicity accepted. Their fingers interlaced perfectly, gentle yet secure.
Somehow, without intending to—in fact, while intending for the very opposite—Felicity had attracted not only a respectable match, but the very thing she had spent so much of her life refusing to believe she’d needed. And now that she knew she needed it, Felicity could not help feeling that she needed it desperately.
“Felicity…”
She needed him desperately.
Atticus was the answer to a question which had become increasingly difficult for Felicity to ignore. Perhaps she no longer wanted to ignore it. Despite her exhaustive attempts to pursue only the best feelings, Felicity had never considered that she might be unjustly denying herself the sweetest feeling of all.
It had taken a letter from a stranger and the arrival of another stranger to break Felicity’s hardened, scarred foundation into something with which she could begin to rebuild her ideas of herself and what—and whom—she truly wanted. She wished never to return to her former emptiness.
A prideful whisper in the back of Felicity’s head told her she should be at least a little embarrassed that the seed of self-reflection and growth could only be induced to take root by such extraordinary measures. But with Atticus staring into her eyes like this, his lips forming soundless words meant for Felicity’s heart to hear, she was already losing her capacity to care about anything else.
“Thank you for bringing them here,” Atticus continued, each word chosen with care, with weight. “You have brought so much luminosity to my favorite place. I did not even realize that it—much like myself—needed luminosity until I met you.”
Felicity’s fingers curled around Atticus’s, the warmth of contentment and certainty pooling in her chest and radiating out to every corner of her body and spirit. Meaningful silence stretched between them as they remained entranced by each other’s eyes. Felicity did not know how to respond to such a beautiful speech.
Until, all at once, she did.
“I am falling—”
“I am falling…”
They trailed into stillness once more. Felicity saw her words echoed back to her in the depths of her husband’s sweet eyes. She knew he saw the same in hers.
Without words, they were of one mind, one heart…one future.
Atticus’s hands tightened around Felicity’s as he rocked with a laugh. Pure elation relaxed every hard line and crease of worry on his unjustly handsome face. Really, it was hardly fair that Lady Swan had somehow managed to locate the man most likely to stun Felicity’s critical eye. No doubt Atticus suited the ideal of many a lady.
A realization dawned on Felicity as her own laugh rushed forth, clashing delightfully with her husband’s. She had been charmed by Atticus, even if only by the most imperceptible degree, well before she had seen enough detail to determine him handsome or otherwise. She had been charmed by Atticus from the moment he’d stumbled down from the carriage, nose buried in a book.
“Goodness.” Atticus gasped as the comfortable peace of the library returned. “I have witnessed such overlapping speech between you and Miss Mercy before, but I never thought I would converse with anyone long enough or deeply enough to chance upon the same myself.”
“I do not think it was chance,” Felicity replied, her thumbs rubbing slow circles against Atticus’s skin of their own free will. “I think that is simply what my heart does when I care for someone so ardently.”
Emotion filled Atticus’s gaze. He untangled their fingers and cradled both Felicity’s hands in his, bringing them to rest against his firm chest.
“I am honored to be so deeply connected with you and I pray our connection will continue to deepen with all the time afforded to us.”
Felicity could only nod, quiet and thoughtful, a once rare combination for her. She felt the significance of the transformation taking place between them in the truest part of her soul, nudging her closer to the edge until she found herself sitting here bumping knees with her husband, suspended in that weightlessness just before tipping.
She felt the certainty of the transformation in the already familiar way he held her hands. There could be no doubt. Felicity must face the truth head on, just as she always did.
After this, any attempts to return to their former relationship would be near impossible without total destruction of the fragile new understanding they had each gained for themselves. Felicity could already feel herself beginning to forget what it was like to let go of him, to be without his hands in hers.
“I hope you know,” Atticus began, breaking the long pause, “that my respect for your comfort and peace will never change. We may proceed as slowly as you wish. A marital courtship, I suppose. I have always preferred a slower pace myself.”
Felicity was glad for Atticus’s hands around hers. They were the only things keeping her from drifting into the cool, gray sky on a cloud of bliss, all the more pleasurable for its unexpectedness.
“I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your gesture, Atticus,” Felicity finally managed to whisper through the erratic pulsing in her throat. “It speaks to the selflessness and kindness in your character that are so admirable to me. Thank you for your patience and understanding.”
As she spoke, Felicity observed the entire scene as if from some distance. Could that truly be her, the one always eager to rush headfirst into everything, admitting her need for unhurried time? It was necessary, Felicity knew, if she hoped to make peace with this new part of herself that had only just begun to bloom. Or perhaps it had always been there, waiting for Atticus to bring it to life.
“Thank you, husband,” she said under her breath, so quietly, she did not know if she had made any sound. She was certain that Atticus would hear.
Felicity bent her neck, letting her forehead rest against his delightfully soft mouth. Atticus responded, nuzzling his nose into her hair, pressing his lips into her skin, sending her heart soaring.
Every fiber of Felicity’s being savored this sensation, foreign and familiar all at once. Atticus had shown her what it truly meant to take her time, to allow something to flourish naturally. Finally, with Atticus by her side, Felicity could begin the wondrous process of appreciating the moment rather than rushing toward and past and through it.
With Atticus by her side, every moment could last a lifetime.