Chapter Fifteen
Avery different type of apprehension plagued Atticus as he paced up and down the library shelves, illuminated by candlelight and a faint glow from the fireplace. The precise location where their lives had changed forever. For the better.
He had been waiting for Felicity since he had received word of her return from Huxley, but she had gone straight upstairs to change. Several minutes ago, a maid had appeared in the doorway to inform Atticus that Felicity had torn the hem of her gown and required another change.
Atticus’s eyes darted to the clock on the marble mantle. The hope with which he had strode into the library after his conversation with Mama was all but extinguished. Their neighbors would be arriving soon—far too soon for all he longed to say and all he longed to hear in return.
“Please forgive my tardiness!” Felicity’s bright voice called from somewhere behind Atticus.
“Felicity.” Atticus held out a hand toward his wife, resplendent in a blue, silk gown with intricate, silver beading, cheeks flushed with her haste.
She took his hand and wove their fingers together. He felt the stiffness ease from Felicity as they inhaled in unison. The rhythms of their very beings fell into place.
Atticus’s hopes of walking into the drawing room arm in arm and confident in the next chapter of their journey may have been dashed, yet his newfound confidence remained. When Felicity gazed up at him with that profound certainty that Atticus recognized in his own soul, he knew.
He knew that once he laid his naked heart at Felicity’s feet—shedding every layer of worry, self-doubt, guilt, past circumstances—he would succeed.
Tilting her head to one side, diamond tiara shimmering in the warm flickers of candlelight, Felicity grinned. A strange sense of inevitability overcame Atticus. It almost felt as if they had said it all in that single look. Still, the words lingering on the tip of his tongue would require release later. After dinner, when their world became quiet and still once more, just the two of them.
“Are you ready?” Felicity whispered after another long, silent breath.
Atticus grinned back. “I am.”
He knew the nerves would return when the multitude of people began spilling into his home, eager for hours of entertainment. Threading Felicity’s arm through his, Atticus knew he was ready to endure them.
Outside the drawing room doors, Atticus paused. He turned to Felicity and brought one hand to her face, tracing the soft planes of her cheek to her jaw. A muscle in Felicity’s neck twitched. Her eyes lowered to Atticus’s mouth.
“You make this so much easier than I ever thought possible,” he whispered against her temple. Her hair tickled the tip of his nose and Atticus inhaled her scent.
“As do you, in so many ways,” she replied, warm breath caressing Atticus’s skin.
“Well now, there you are!” Papa’s voice boomed from down the hall, followed by an echoing clap.
The young pair jumped apart, still not quite used to their privilege of physical proximity as a married couple. Atticus offered a prayer of gratitude for the shadows in the hall as embarrassment scorched his face.
“I swear, your mama has sent me all over this house in search of you today.” The older man laughed as he approached. “Now when I go in search of you again, I find you precisely where you are meant to be.”
Papa fixed them with a proud gaze as he settled one hand on Atticus’s shoulder and the other on Felicity’s. Despite his mortification at being interrupted during a moment of spontaneous affection, Atticus could not help a small smile. Papa did not realize how correct he was. Or perhaps he did, judging by the glint in his amused eyes.
“You both look dazzling,” he continued. “Shall we? Your mother is already inside, flying about to ensure the finishing touches are still finished.”
Atticus and Felicity exchanged glances and nodded.
The four Wheadons only had a few minutes to gather themselves before the first guests, the Abbott and Gardiner families, were announced. The Harrowsmiths and Daileys followed shortly thereafter, and then several more couples and families from Bainbridge, including the Reeves.
As Atticus had predicted, his usual worries continued to escalate as more and more people arrived. Enveloped as he was in the haze of falling in love, where time held no relevance, this cacophony of strange voices surrounding him was a harsh reminder that Atticus had only lived among them for three months.
He had only known Felicity for three months. Atticus, the one who never dared rush a decision, even one as inconsequential as which cravat to wear at dinner, had found love and married in a matter of weeks. It sounded more like a fairy tale Atticus might read on a rainy summer night than his own life.
Gliding about the room, effortlessly conversing and smiling abundantly, Atticus’s wife looked every bit the enchanting princess he pictured in his mind’s eye when he read those magical stories.
Somehow, he had unintentionally chosen the best corner from which to observe Felicity’s natural talents as hostess. Much like Mama, she visited every cluster of guests for several minutes each, lending her ear and wearing an inviting smile. Atticus was only too happy to watch her glow under the candelabras and bask in the compliments of her neighbors from his spot, quiet and tucked away.
“Mr. Wheadon!”
The familiar, airy voice of Miss Clara Gardiner sounded to Atticus’s right. He leaned forward and peered around the large vase blocking his peripheral vision. The young lady did the same, curls springing delightfully.
“I do hope we are not overwhelming you. Or boring you! Heavens, I cannot think which would be more dreadful.” She laughed as she joined Atticus in his corner.
“Neither, Miss Clara, I assure you,” Atticus said with a chuckle of his own. “I trust the evening is meeting your expectations thus far?”
Aside from the amiable Mr. Harrowsmith, the sweet, good-natured Gardiner sisters had quickly become Atticus’s favorites of his new Bainbridge friends. Miss Clara wrinkled her nose and shook her head.
“Mr. Wheadon, you are too humble! The evening has already exceeded my every expectation tremendously. I applaud you all!”
Atticus waved a hand, his eyes once again finding Felicity in the shifting crowd by the fireplace, this time with the elder Mrs. Harrowsmith and her younger counterpart.
“Thank you, but you direct your applause at the incorrect party. I hardly lifted a hand compared to my parents and Felicity. It would appear they are all great lovers of the art of hosting, from planning to execution.”
Miss Clara looked in the direction of Atticus’s gaze. “She always thought she would hate it,” she replied under her breath. “Of course, she suspected she’d be amidst strangers if she ever married—and then she’d be forced to spend all her time and energy preparing these grand events for people she hardly knows or cares for, being paraded about like a prized mare. Our Felicity does have quite a way with words when she has a mind for it,” she finished, hiding her grin behind a silken hand.
“Indeed she does,” Atticus agreed. “I am glad she appears not to feel as though she is a hostess against her will.”
“Not at all! In fact, she appears to be enjoying herself a great deal. She is a willing and proud participant because she is proud of her new home and family.”
Warmth released the tension in Atticus’s muscles. Having Felicity’s happiness confirmed by his parents, who possessed a natural bias toward him, was one thing. Having it confirmed by those who had known Felicity longest, who knew her best, was another thing entirely.
“I am immensely pleased to hear you say so,” Atticus replied, lowering his head in a grateful bow. “I plan to ensure she continues to enjoy herself a great deal every day.”
The whimsical young lady’s hands flew to her face, cupping her round cheeks as she let out a satisfied sigh.
“I know you will, sir. It is written, after all. Just like Lydia and Sebastian, a foretold happy ending. They have been the dearest friends their entire lives, yet they only found their way to each other with Lady Swan’s help. Of course there can be no doubt of their eternal contentment, or yours and Felicity’s.”
Lady Swan.
A memory buried in the back of Atticus’s mind surged forward. “P-Pardon?”
Miss Clara’s eyes widened, her breath quickening.
“Oh, just Lydia and Sebastian, you see,” she hurried, pointing in the direction of the younger Mrs. Harrowsmith. “Being only a month apart in age and raised on adjoining properties, they have shared a particular closeness since their earliest days, even closer than the rest of our little circle.”
Atticus’s polite smile tightened. “Ah, I do recall now. But…you mentioned a Lady Swan?”
“I-Indeed? Well, you see, it is a little difficult to define precisely because, well, we do not know who she is.”
The deep well of panic that had always lived inside Atticus, that had been kept at bay by this blissful, waking dream, threatened to shoot up like a fountain and drown him in his old fears.
“And how might Lady Swan be involved in—”
“Dinner is served!”
The butler’s bellow sliced through idle conversation. In a blink, Miss Clara had returned to her older sister’s side halfway across the drawing room, blending in with the crush of guests as they funneled toward the dining room doors.
Atticus forced himself to engage in the motions throughout the remainder of the evening. Had his mental state not suffered such an unexpected shock, he might have thought it a little pitiful how quickly he resumed that feeling of being half in the room and half in the dungeon of his own mind.
As always, he survived by employing his favorite technique of staying as much out of the way as possible and allowing whoever came within his vicinity to focus the conversation on themselves, leaving him to nod and hum along at regular intervals. All the while, Miss Clara’s words echoed in his mind—the name of Lady Swan most of all.
“Congratulations to you both on a spectacular evening!” Mama cheered as the drawing room door closed behind the last guest. She flew to Atticus and Felicity and threw her arms around them.
“I suspect our fellow hosts are in need of rest. I know I certainly am,” Papa added with a muffled yawn, one hand rubbing his straining vest.
The older couple bid goodnight to the younger and quit the drawing room, arm in arm with Mrs. Wheadon’s head resting against Mr. Wheadon’s shoulder. Atticus did not know how he could have grown up with the truest example of love before his eyes and still been so terrified of it.
“Shall we?” Felicity asked just before the door. She looked over her shoulder at Atticus, one brow raised expectantly.
No, staring at his wife from across the room, Atticus knew how. Because no matter how much closer he thought he came to understanding and accepting love, he still found himself facing a question whose answer could very well crush him.
“Atticus?”
Beautiful Felicity turned away from the door and took several steps toward him. There was that dauntless, curious glint in her dark eyes. Her pink lips parted, on the verge of another question.
“Who is Lady Swan?”
The question hung in the air between them. Only the faint ticking of the grandfather clock on the opposite wall punctuated the silence. Atticus lost count of the seconds. They both stood rooted to their positions.
Eventually, Felicity deflated, her rigid shoulders dropping. But her head did not hang. Her eyes remained fixed on Atticus, resolved.
“I do not know. None of us do. Lydia was the first to receive a letter from her last Season. It contained hints guiding Lydia toward her perfect match, with an uncanny personal knowledge of them both. And, well, you have seen the result of her work.”
The words trickled out haltingly. The ache of uncertainty that had gripped Atticus’s chest all evening squeezed tighter. This was not like his Felicity. He could see it in her restless fingers worrying away at the silk sash around her waist. Atticus could read her behaviors so well in such little time, yet he had clearly missed a significant indicator that something was indeed quite wrong…and had been wrong for longer than he’d realized.
“And Lady Swan is a false name?”
“It would appear so. There were a few initial theories and attempts to unmask her. But, in truth, we all became preoccupied with solving the mystery of whom Lydia was being guided toward, and of course the drama of our own experiences of the Season. Thus, Lady Swan’s true identity remains unknown.”
“You received a letter. Directing you toward me.”
A statement, not a question. The pieces of a much larger puzzle that had begun the moment he’d stepped foot in Bainbridge fell into place.
Felicity’s gaze answered the painful truth. She nodded once.
As the pieces fell into place, Atticus’s heart fell apart. The false pretenses had not begun with their marriage. They had begun before Atticus had even arrived. His blood boiled in his veins with mortification and misery as he stared back at the woman he loved so desperately. The woman he needed.
“You are here because of a letter,” Atticus whispered.
His mind spun, parsing every precious memory for the glimpses of truth Atticus had been too daft to notice. Perhaps he had not wanted to notice them. The feeling of being seen and understood, of laying bare his entire vulnerable being with another, free of judgment, had been too intoxicating. He had not appreciated how impactful that liberation had been to his spirit until this moment.
Worse still, he had thought the feeling had been reciprocated. Despite the remarkable progress their unlikely marriage had made, despite the intimacy Atticus had thought they had begun to foster, his wife had not been able to bring herself to reveal this letter. In fact, she did not appear to have had any intention of ever revealing it. He yet again found himself unbalanced, unsure of his place in the world—of his place in Felicity’s world.
Her eyes fell to the ground. “It began that way…”
“And that is why you were watching me the day we arrived—because you were curious. That is why you hid in the gardens on the day of the welcome luncheon—because you were determined not to marry, to avoid me. That is why…you followed me into the library… because…”
Atticus dragged the words out, each one scraping against his raw throat. His heart hammered in a way he had never experienced before. How could he have been ignorant of such a detail for so long? What other information about his wife and their relationship might remain hidden from him? “It began that way…” she repeated slowly.
“Felicity, I…” Atticus attempted a shuddering inhale.
“Yes?” Even with her head lowered, her hands twisting around each other, she still encouraged him.
“Why did you not tell me sooner? I thought we’d shared everything…”
Felicity’s expression contorted and she turned her face away. “Because I did not want Lady Swan’s letter. I never wanted one. But she disregarded my very vocal aspirations to spinsterhood.
“How was I to explain that to a stranger? Especially after the night of the ball and finding myself so unexpectedly and permanently attached to you, I felt even less at liberty to reveal Lady Swan’s role. The situation was already so unwelcome to us both that I could not bear to make it any more complex. And now here I stand…”
Her voice trailed away into the low crackle of firelight. She still did not meet Atticus’s eye. That was the most worrisome indicator of all.
How could he have been so blind? How could he have been so wrong? Even Mama was wrong.
Just hours ago, Atticus had been armed with all the confidence he had ever managed to muster in his life to throw off his fears and give his whole heart to his wife. And now…
“And now here you stand…married to me because of an anonymous matchmaker’s letter.”
In a strange reversal of their natures, Felicity fell silent while Atticus’s pain and shame spurred him on.
“I thought you fell in love with me…because of me. I thought someone had seen me just as I am and accepted it, wanted it. Without Lady Swan, you would never have looked in my direction. Instead, I became an obstacle to your true desire because you were given reason to take notice of me.”
Felicity’s perfect lips trembled. Even from halfway across the room, for neither of them dared move an inch closer with this wall of the unsaid between them, Atticus could see the glisten in her eyes.
“I thought we trusted each other. I thought we had achieved full openness and honesty between each other. I thought I had finally solved the mystery of coming to truly understand another soul. And now I find that I am far more naive than I feared.”
His soul crumbled to see her distress, knowing he was the cause, while his mind hissed in that deepest, darkest corner that after this uncomfortable business, in some strange way, Felicity would be free. If she did not truly love Atticus as he had come to believe, heartache would be no imprisonment for her.
For the only heart broken, it would be a lifelong punishment. This was for the best, Atticus reasoned to himself. Better his heart than hers, certainly. Felicity had endured more than enough already. But could Atticus endure it?
There was no other choice. He had outrun even himself.
“Please do not think to spare me. I seek honesty only, no secrets.” Atticus paused and braced himself. Terrified or not, he must know. “If the discovery had not been forced, did you ever plan to tell me about Lady Swan?”