Chapter 10
There was a small reception room in the church that was typically used after the weddings Rosalind had attended here for the celebratory events that followed.
They did not have enough people to bother with it today.
Instead, they were planning to have a small wedding breakfast in the parish house, assembled from the offerings of a few nearby bakeries that had been gathered this morning en route to the wedding.
The only trouble was that they had to exit through the churchyard garden to get to the house, and all the onlookers were out there.
Waiting.
“I can go out first,” Sir Ambrose offered, after descending from his musical pedestal. “Perhaps I can lead them on a chase and loop back around once everyone’s landed safely in the house.”
“I was hoping that Teddy and Roland had already chased them all off, actually,” his wife said with a frown. “Yes, Ambrose, let us go out first and see what the lay of the land is, hm? And if any further management is necessary, we will see to it then.”
“What if we just let them see us?” Rosalind said, frowning. “What could be so bad about just seeing us? You don’t think they will try to do me harm, do you?”
“No, sweeting,” said Mae immediately. “But we don’t want you heckled either.”
“Heckled?” she repeated, a sinking taking hold of her chest. “Do they hate me?”
Matthew was still supporting her weight, his arm wrapped around her side, and he squeezed her a little closer. “No,” he said, softly enough that it wasn’t an announcement to the whole room. “They do not hate you. They crave your attention, which might be worse.”
“Well, they don’t care about me,” Millie Murphy said from the pews, already gathering up two pink boxes from the Covent Garden bakery. “I’ll go get set up, shall I? Heather can bite one of them if you like.”
“Bite?” said the little girl, her eyes going wide.
“No!” snapped Abe. “Millicent, really!”
His wife only giggled, taking their daughter by the hand and following Vix and Ambrose down the aisle out toward the church door.
Abe rounded on Rosalind like it had been her idea and rubbed a hand over his face. “Biting?!”
“Biting,” Rosalind agreed, giving him a weak smile in return. “It could work.”
A few moments later, Ambrose Aster stuck his white-blond head back into the church and called to them that they could come.
“It’s only the journalist fellow,” he said. “But he’s outside the gate.”
“That journalist looked all of twelve years old,” Hannah muttered as they gathered to move. “Thaddeus should just toss him a few blocks down the road.”
“He’d only write about it,” Mae reasoned. “That’s probably why they can’t get rid of him entirely.”
Rosalind and Matthew lingered, letting even Mr. Green walk around them out toward the door, as she would be the slowest of them anyhow.
“I was wondering,” he said, looking down at her in the multicolored light. “Might I carry you? It would take the strain off your leg and it is tradition, isn’t it?”
“Only over your doorstep,” she said, blinking at him in surprise. “You want to carry me the whole way there? I’m awfully heavy.”
He released a short little laugh before he could stop himself and pressed his lips together, those lovely green eyes sweeping over her face. “I think I can manage,” he said. “If you will allow it.”
She marveled for a moment before she remembered to nod. “Just be careful of the leg,” she said, a little breathy with the thrill of what he was suggesting. “And if I’m too heavy, you can put me down.”
“You aren’t,” he assured her. “But all right.”
She moved her arms up over his shoulders, taking a tentative grip on them as he bent his knees and found the back of her own through the puffy layers of her skirt.
He gave her a little warning sound and then swooped her up and into his grasp, chuckling at the way she squeaked when her feet left the ground, and then tilted her inward toward his chest so that she could feel secure where she was held.
It wasn’t at all like when Mr. Beck had picked her up and carried her away from the toppled statue, she thought as he walked toward the church exit. Mr. Beck was such a large man, and she had been dangling from his grip like a bunch of dirty laundry that day.
This felt more … hm, how to put it. It felt more like how the top of a ceramic teapot fit perfectly into place, like there was a slot here that had been made especially for her.
She supposed that was silly. His arms were probably aching and here she was thinking it was more comfortable than a feather mattress.
If their friends found anything odd about her position in his arms as they emerged onto the lawn, they did not say so. There was a bit of lingering observation, was all. Vix even looked like she approved.
“Congratulations, Miss Manners!” called the journalist from the gate. “Mrs. Manners!”
She knew it was likely foolish, but she raised her arm and waved to him.
He waved back.
Matthew released a little sound, somewhere between amusement and wonder. “Rosalind,” he said. “You may be the sweetest creature I’ve ever known.”
She put her hand back on his shoulder and gave him a bashful little smile. “Sweetness and silliness often look the same,” she said softly, “but thank you.”
And before she could lose her nerve, she quickly leaned forward and pecked a quick, dry kiss on his cheek.
She reddened immediately after doing it, her cheeks burning, and curled her face into the curve of his neck so that she did not have to know it if anyone saw, but all the same, she thought she could feel the way his face changed because he was grinning now as they walked.
When he carried her over the threshold into the house, she knew that ought to have been the grandest part of the entire journey, but it wasn’t. It was actually a little bit disappointing, because now he would have to put her down again.
He did so very gently, at least, right on the sofa where she’d slept that night, after the picnic. He was still smiling very widely, and pulled away by sliding his hands down the length of her arms and holding her own for a moment before letting her go entirely.
“What can I get you to drink?” he asked. “Do you want a slice of cake? Some fruit?”
“That is already handled, Mr. Everly,” said Hannah, coming around with two glasses of lightly fizzing liquid. “You may sit with your wife and be served.”
“Yes, Matthew, what do you take us for?” Vix put in, carrying the plates behind her. She stopped and offered Rosalind a gentle smile. “Your cake, Mrs. Everly.”
“Oh,” Rosalind said, her heart giving an extra thump. “Mrs. Everly.”
She thought perhaps her new husband was grinning about her again, though of course, he might also have just been very pleased about the cake and champagne.
“We’ve already brought some of your things upstairs,” Millie told her.
“Miss Casper and I have been working on a special nightgown for you to wear while your leg is healing, after we ruined that one the other night with the new ointment. We’ve made two, which are with your things, and I’ll have the rest sent over tomorrow. ”
“What’s happened with her nightgowns?” Abe asked, frowning. “What was ruined?”
Rosalind gave a little sigh and frowned. “Muslin is very delicate.”
He blinked at her. “Is it?”
Mae tittered. “I’ve crafted an ointment now that her bruise has risen to the surface and isn’t as tender to the touch anymore.
It needs to be broken up and treated with heat at this stage to speed healing, but ointment by its very nature is quite oily.
It ruins the fabric. Oh, that reminds me, I will need to instruct you on how to treat the bruise, Mr. Everly.
I can show you how to do it before I leave today. ”
Matthew himself was watching this conversation unfold with half the fork still in his mouth, his eyes wide.
“It isn’t so bad,” Rosalind said reassuringly. “You don’t have to press down all that hard, and the ointment smells very nice. Not at all like some medicines.”
“Now wait a damn minute,” Abe said. “Did that stuff get on my good sheets? Rosalind, did it get on my good sheets?”
She grimaced. “I’m afraid so.”
“Abe, don’t be a boor,” his wife said, patting his leg. “You left a tomato on our sheets in the first month of our marriage, if you recall.”
“But those weren’t good sheets,” he said, his accent going a bit thicker for emphasis.
“Rosalind, ignore your brother,” Millie instructed. “It was actually only half a tomato, now that I’m thinking about it, which is worse.”
“But I just bought those sheets!” Abe exclaimed.
“Half a tomato?” Hannah repeated in a fascinated whisper. “In your bedroom?”
“I like a salted tomato!” he snapped back at her, making her hold her hands up in apology.
Matthew Everly still hadn’t taken the fork out of his mouth.
Mae Casper was watching him out of the side of her eye with a smile slanting up on the side of her mouth, her own fork twirling in her plate of cake. She shifted her focus to Rosalind and blinked, unabashed at having been caught.
“The nightgowns,” she said, as though they hadn’t been interrupted in this topic, “have a slit up the side where your injury is, and Millie and I sewed buttons down the slit so you can close it back up when you’re not using it.
If you sleep on your stomach, you can leave the fabric parted so the ointment can soak in.
I got a delivery of arnica just yesterday and was able to make a fresh pot for you. ”
“Arnica,” Matthew repeated on the fork, sounding like he might have inhaled a little bit of the cake. “Whassit?”
“An herb,” Vix answered, blinking at him. “Use context, Matthew. For heaven’s sake. You went to Cambridge.”
“He did,” Roland Reed said, entering the room looking a bit sweaty from the work of fending off looky-loos. “He sent an ungodly amount of letters.”
Matthew finally put the fork down. “You will find,” he said slowly, narrowing his eyes at his friend, “that those letters were actually very godly.”
Mr. Beck, who came in after Mr. Reed, snorted.
“I enjoyed them,” Vix put in. “He recommended a great deal of books that got me in all sorts of trouble.”
“Oh?” said Rosalind. “Mr. Everl—Matthew, have you read The Monk?”
He turned his head slowly and stared at her for so long that his eyes began to water, utterly silent.
Then, after a moment, he said thinly, “Yes. I have.”
She nodded, giving him what she hoped was an encouraging smile. “Vix got in terrible trouble for reading that one when she was a governess. She lent it to me when I was still new to London.”
“She did?” he said, still thin-voiced.
She held her smile, though felt it tremble a bit, wondering if perhaps he hadn’t liked the book. She supposed the vicar in it had met a terrible fate. “Yes,” she said. “I thought it was well written.”
“But she preferred Zofloya,” Mae put in, then popped another piece of cake into her mouth while Matthew spun around to stare at her instead.
Rosalind watched the back of his head, all brown and curly, and wondered what sorts of books he liked to read when he wasn’t working. She told herself she must ask him later, when they were alone.
Mae simply leaned around him, ignoring the stare. “How are you enjoying Vathek, sweeting? Did you get to the glowing library?”
“It is … I don’t know,” said Rosalind, wrinkling her nose. “The hero is so complacent in his ruin, isn’t he? All for the sake of his navel-gazing. I think it a little unnecessary.”
“Indeed?” said Vix. “You would hate the works of Lord Byron.”
“She would?!” Ambrose replied, looking personally affronted. “The man is a genius. I doubt Miss Murph—Mrs. Everly would miss that obvious fact.”
“Navel-gazing,” Vix said fondly, leaning forward to pinch her husband’s nose at the tip. “Your favorite sporting event, hm?”
“Nonsense,” he huffed, snatching at her hand and planting a kiss on it. “Absolute nonsense.”
“How about,” said Thaddeus Beck, his deep voice cutting through the room without needing any volume to support it, “we move from literary discourse to the opening of gifts, hm? I think our bride and groom might appreciate that.”
Rosalind perked up immediately, and Matthew, oddly, seemed to slump against her in something like relief.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, Tod. Capital idea.”
Rosalind nodded and took a bracing breath, wondering what parts of her new life were hiding in the little parcels around the room.
She couldn’t wait to find out.