Chapter Twelve #2
"True. She seems formidable."
"Terrifying. Much worse than Parliament."
They fell into silence again, but it was less strained than before. The crowd had moved on to other entertainment, though Alexander caught occasional glances their way.
"Your Grace?" Jeffords appeared, looking apologetic. "About the luggage..."
"How bad?" Ophelia asked before Alexander could.
"Your trunk, Your Grace... the water got into everything. Your dresses, they're... well, they're unwearable."
Alexander watched her face carefully. She'd been so distressed in the carriage about her clothes, and now to hear they were completely ruined...
But she just nodded. "I expected as much. Thank you for trying, Jeffords."
"Your Grace's things might be salvageable," Jeffords told Alexander. "Some of them, at least."
"Focus on drying what you can," Alexander instructed. "We'll make do."
Jeffords departed, and Alexander studied his wife. "You're taking this well."
"What's the point of hysteria? The dresses are ruined. I can't un-ruin them by crying."
"They were your trousseau."
"Yes."
"For your new life."
"Yes."
"And now they're destroyed."
"Yes."
"And you're sitting in an inn wearing a servant's dress."
"Your point?"
"I don't have one. I'm just... surprised."
"By what?"
"I expected more drama. Tears. Accusations that this is somehow my fault."
"Is it your fault?"
"The wheel breaking? No. The rain? Probably not. Marrying you and thereby invoking the Coleridge curse? Definitely."
"The Coleridge curse?" She raised an eyebrow. "We don't have a curse."
"You absolutely do. Your entire family radiates catastrophe."
"We radiate success, actually. We're remarkably good at turning disasters into advantages."
"Is that what you call this morning?"
"This morning I married a duke. That's generally considered successful."
"This morning you vomited on a duke."
"And yet I still married him. See? Coleridge luck."
He stared at her. "You're actually trying to find a bright side to this catastrophe?"
"Would you prefer I sob dramatically? I could. I mentioned I'm very good at crying on command."
"No. No crying. I've had enough fluids on me for one day."
She bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh. "That's a horrible jest."
"I don't jest."
"You just did."
"I did not. Dukes don't jest."
"What do they do?"
"Endure. With dignity."
"In blankets?"
"When necessary."
This time she did laugh—a quiet sound, but genuine. It was different from the laughs he'd heard at society events, the calculated tinkles designed to sound appropriate. This was unexpected, slightly snorting, entirely improper.
"You snort when you laugh," he observed.
"I do not!"
"You absolutely do."
"How flattering. First I'm a bad luck charm, now I snort."
They were interrupted by the innkeeper approaching with a ledger. "Begging your pardon, but if you could sign the register? For the room?"
Alexander took the offered quill and signed with perhaps more flourish than necessary: 'The Duke and Duchess of Montclaire.'
The innkeeper's eyes widened as he read it. "Your Grace! I didn't... that is, I'm sorry for the... the room's not..."
"The room is fine," Ophelia said quickly. "We're grateful for your hospitality."
"But Your Graces should have the best room! I could move the Weatherbys..."
"No," Alexander said firmly. "We don't displace other guests."
The innkeeper looked like he might argue, but Ophelia touched his arm gently. "Truly, we're perfectly comfortable. Though perhaps... might there be hot water for a bath?"
"Of course, Your Grace! Right away!"
He scurried off, and Alexander looked at Ophelia. "A bath?"
"We're both covered in mud. Unless you plan to sleep that way?"
Sleep. In that tiny room. With that one bed.
He must have shown something on his face because she added quietly, "I can sleep in the chair."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Then you sleep in the chair?"
"It's too small."
"Then...?"
They looked at each other, both clearly arriving at the same conclusion and equally unhappy about it.
"We're married," she said finally. "It's just sleeping."
"Just sleeping," he agreed.
"Like brother and sister."
"I don't have a sister."
"Like cousins then."
"My cousin Frederick once put a frog in my bed."
"I promise not to put anything in the bed."
"How reassuring."
The crowd was beginning to thin as people headed to their rooms. The storm showed no signs of abating, which meant they were all trapped here for the night.
"I'll go up first," Ophelia said. "For the bath. You should... perhaps see if Jeffords can find you a shirt somewhere?"
"From where?"
"The innkeeper might have something."
"Yes, because wearing the innkeeper's clothes is exactly how I planned to spend my wedding night."
She stood, then paused. "It could be worse."
"How? How could this possibly be worse?"
"We could be at your estate, hosting a wedding night dinner for both our families, pretending to be happy while they all stared at us and made horrible toasts."
Alexander considered this. "That would be worse."
"See? Perspective."
She left him there, and he watched her navigate through the remaining crowd with surprising grace. Several people nodded to her respectfully, and she responded with genuine warmth. How did she do that? Make common strangers like her so easily?