Chapter Twelve
Asublime week passed in which the air became a touch chillier and more and more of Atticus’s and Felicity’s days began to overlap. He had kept track of each one, adding it to the tally in his nightly prayers of gratitude. Another day spent with Felicity. Another miracle.
Better still, they were rapidly approaching a point where they spent more time together than apart. And Atticus had never been happier.
“Look at us,” said his wife, a wistful lilt in her voice as she gave Atticus a smile of relaxed confidence from the chair to his left. “Who knew I would ever find such enjoyment in reading now that you have helped me discover subjects and authors that suit my interests? My governess would not have thought any of this appropriate or necessary for a proper, young lady—only a bored one.”
Atticus’s own smile spread as he watched Felicity look down fondly at the volume in her hands. How had she sensed where his mind had wandered? How did she always know the state of his heart?
It must have been that connection they had realized on that day, right here in these very seats, that communicated silently between them everything they needed to know. Still, despite Atticus’s general inclination toward quietude, he found he much preferred the verbal exchange of ideas and emotions with Felicity.
Though he might sense her thoughts, he never knew what might be released from her mouth next. For one who distrusted surprises at best and loathed them at worst, this was one surprise Atticus had come to need as critically as air.
“And you have opened my eyes to the vast benefits of exposure to the outdoors,” Atticus replied. He slipped a bookmark made of Felicity’s pressed cornflowers between the pages of his novel and tucked the book between leg and armrest. Even literature so beautiful it made scholars weep could not disengage his interest from the lady now.
“Our strawberry-picking excursion, for example,” he continued, mind drifting back to that day—the day when the mutual resignation and cautious companionship that had developed over their first month as man and wife had begun to shift, and quickly.
“A fruitful excursion, indeed.” Felicity giggled behind the open pages of her book.
Atticus chuckled and nodded. Without any prior discussion, his wife, too, seemed to note the significance of that event in the trajectory of their marriage.
“I would have never willingly participated, let alone originated the idea, before coming here and meeting you. Of course, Mama and Arabella have encouraged me to join them a few times over the years at Myhill in our apple orchard—mostly with love and a touch of coercion.
“But with you, I enjoyed every moment. There is never any force. Many things, even those far beyond my realm of comfort, become tolerable—enjoyable, even, if you are involved. I have also found many merits in our regular walks, only one of your many brilliant ideas for the improvement of my life and the good of Setherwell. The sunlight and fresh air bring a measure of peace to my mind I thought achievable only within the written word. Though I am afraid my tolerance for ‘bracing cold,’ as you say, is not quite as generous as yours.”
“The written word…” Felicity whispered, her gaze drifting to some distant point across the library. “How can Lady Swan be so correct yet again?”
Atticus sat up straighter. “Lady Swan?”
“Pardon?” Felicity’s head jerked up, chest rising and falling rapidly.
“You spoke of a Lady Swan… Is she a writer? A poetess?” Atticus probed, curiosity overtaking him.
Over the past few months, especially with a popular wife like Felicity, Atticus had come to know every Bainbridge resident, even if only by name. In that same time, Atticus and Felicity had shared many lengthy conversations about their histories and the people who populated them. No mention had ever been made of any Lady Swan.
“You must have misheard,” Felicity replied in a rush, looking anywhere but Atticus. She shot to her feet. “I believe I shall call at Huxley and take tea with Mercy.”
Atticus rose as well. “Certainly, but, Felicity, if there is anything or anyone that troubles—”
“Why should there be any trouble?” Felicity interrupted with a strained chuckle. “The only trouble I recall is that Mercy is still undecided on a subject to paint as a gift for Ellen’s birthday at the end of the month. I will find you upon my return.”
Turning on her heel, Felicity only managed to march a couple of steps before Atticus’s hand shot out and grasped her wrist. She glanced over her shoulder, eyes widening when they spied Atticus’s other hand.
“You nearly forgot your—”
“Do not touch that! P-Please,” Felicity finished weakly as she snatched the book from Atticus, pressing it to her chest. Nimble fingers tucked away the corner of her usual bookmark. The plain corner of a sheet of paper disappeared between the pages as her lively complexion flushed. “I will find you upon my return!” she repeated over her shoulder as swift strides carried her away.
Atticus’s empty hand, still suspended in midair, fell limply to his side. He was completely perplexed. It should not have been such a shocking sensation. He had spent much of their engagement and the first several weeks of their marriage in a state of perpetual perplexity. How quickly he had become accustomed to the contented effortlessness that had emerged between them!
Still staring at the spot between the shelves where Felicity had disappeared from sight, Atticus’s numb legs lowered his body back into his chair. He had just been delivered a crucial lesson.
He had never seen such a look of sheepishness on Felicity’s bold, uncompromising features. There was still much Atticus did not know about his wife, it seemed. Though his mind still echoed and his stomach still churned with that mysterious name, Lady Swan, Atticus did his best to swat it away each time it threatened to capture his attention.
Eventually, the words in his book engaged him once more. Lady Swan became a distant pinprick of interest in the very back of Atticus’s mind.
If Atticus hoped for he and Felicity to one day become husband and wife in the fullest, deepest sense, a hope he himself had only begun forming into words—for words, even in thought, carried power—he absolutely could not risk overstepping Felicity’s sensible parameters. She might withdraw completely, taking with her any chance at shared happiness. Nor would Atticus risk her individual happiness, for surely, any betrayal on his part, no matter how unintentional, would damage it.
At present, their marriage existed in a very tender state. As much as Atticus reveled in the bliss of this undeserved blessing, the undercurrent of fear could never be eradicated. Even when he read the truth in Felicity’s heart when she looked or smiled at him in that way, contentment with a touch of wonder, Atticus lived with the awareness of how fragile it all was.
Their marriage, avowed and signed in ink before heavenly and earthly witnesses alike, may stand the test of time. But surely, an incorrect word or glance or an attempt to produce more closeness at the wrong time and who knew what else Atticus had not even considered could send this fragile thing toppling. Whatever it was.
When Atticus was this in love with Felicity, nothing could be easier than fulfilling her every request. The questions and fears that lingered in the dark corners of his heart would never, must never, outweigh his precious wife’s comfort.
“Atticus…”
He twitched awake. Shaking the sleep from his head, Atticus looked up to find Felicity lingering amongst the shelves. He leapt to his feet. She looked just like a dream, ringlets windswept and eyes shining. Yet her eyes did not find his. Nor did she come any closer. The dream turned odd.
“Forgive me for disturbing you,” she whispered, taking a step back.
Atticus extended a hand. “Please, stay. I am afraid this is not an uncommon occurrence…another one of my regretful habits. I welcome your disruption—not that it is a disruption of any kind. I only mean—”
“I understand.” Felicity chuckled. Her small smile somehow conveyed both fondness and apprehension. “Though I would call it a darling habit rather than a regretful one,” she added quietly, lowering her head. Very odd, indeed.
Despite every sense in Atticus’s body calling out that something was amiss, he could not help the pleasant glow coming from somewhere deep within at his wife’s praise. She never failed to surprise Atticus with her willingness to accept each fault, new or old, that he’d found in himself.
“All the same, I should leave you be,” Felicity continued as she turned.
“I should not mind if you never left me be again.”
She paused.
Atticus blinked hard. He must have been in a dream to say something so daring, even with the comfortable progression of their companionship.
Silently, Felicity turned back. She stared at Atticus for a long heartbeat, expression unreadable. She hesitated and sought his invitation to continue. That typically only occurred when something weighed on her mind. Atticus reached out his hand once more.
Still without speaking, Felicity crossed to their corner and accepted. Atticus helped her into her chair, tucking her shawl tighter about her. The briskness of autumn clung to her face. She was so alive, so beautiful.
“What troubles you? Did something happen at Huxley?” Atticus began without releasing her hand.
Felicity forced her gaze away. “While I was there, Mercy received a note from Creeves Abbey.”
“Ah, Lambert did mention that something arrived for you from Creeves Abbey while you were out. Are Mr. and Mrs. Harrowsmith well?”
Felicity still did not look at Atticus, worrying away at the loose fingertips of her linen gloves. “Quite well, as a matter of fact. Lydia revealed that another little Harrowsmith shall be introduced to us in several months’ time.”
Atticus’s eyes widened. “What a blessing! Their child shall be an exceedingly happy one.”
“I quite agree.” Felicity nodded. “There are no two better suited to the task.”
The initial wave of joy Atticus felt on behalf of his new friends crashed against the jagged edge of his wife’s frown. “A-Are you not pleased for them, Felicity?”
She started as if Atticus had yelled or jumped up, her expression quickly softening. “Of course I am. Truly. They…were made for it.”
It was Atticus’s turn to jolt as she rose swiftly to her feet and began marching toward the front of the library. “My apologies, I am quite in need of rest,” she called over her shoulder without properly looking at Atticus.
As Atticus sat in stillness, he found his earlier sentiments strengthened. As close as they had become, there were still so many dimensions of Felicity’s fascinating heart with which he had yet to become acquainted.
Unless…
Unless there were some dimensions she hid because of him. Because the realization had begun to dawn that some people—like Atticus, with all his nervous tendencies—were decidedly not made for such a noble task as raising another generation. Why else would she struggle to meet his gaze?
Besides, had he not thought the very same thing many times since he’d first become aware of his responsibility?
Atticus shook his head once more, this time to rid himself of those unwelcome doubts. He was stronger now. He must trust that Felicity would open herself in time and leave behind his fears if he hoped to preserve this precious thing.
It would be worth it. It had certainly been worth it thus far. Atticus would do nothing to jeopardize their tender friendship, no matter how desperately his heart ached to follow his wife.