Chapter 11 #2
A brief silence followed, the sounds of the garden continuing around them, laughter rising and falling in the distance, the soft rustle of skirts across the grass. It all felt removed, as though it belonged to another conversation entirely.
“Who was the man?”
Roderick adjusted his weight, then seemed to reconsider himself. “I should not have said even that,” he added. “It is not my place.”
Maxwell’s brow lowered slightly. “You speak as though I would object. We have known each other since we were still on the breast. Surely, there is nothing you can say to shock me.”
Roderick let out a short breath, almost a laugh, though there was little humor in it. “Yes, but you are her husband now,” he said. “It would be… inappropriate to dwell on her past attachments.”
Maxwell’s expression did not change. “This is not a matter of propriety,” he said. “It is information.”
Roderick studied him for a moment, his gaze searching. “You are certain you wish to treat it so plainly, and not hold it against your bride?”
“It is precisely that,” Maxwell replied. “Plain.”
Roderick’s mouth twitched faintly, though the look did not reach his eyes. “If you say so.”
Maxwell said nothing further. There was no need. This was a marriage arranged by circumstance, bound by necessity, and defined by terms that had been made clear from the outset. Whatever had come before it held no bearing on what would follow.
And yet, he found his jaw growing sore from how tight he had set it.
His stance changed slightly, his gaze moving back toward the center of the gathering.
Arabella stood where he had last seen her, her head tilted as she listened to something one of her companions said, her expression open and engaged.
She laughed a moment later, the sound carrying faintly even across the distance.
It was inconsequential.
The reaction was nothing more than irritation. The crowd, the noise, the endless press of people who watched without seeming to do so. That was all.
“It is a fine day,” Roderick said after a moment, as though offering the observation as a means of easing the tension that had settled between them.
“It is,” Maxwell replied.
Roderick glanced at him once more, then followed his line of sight. “You will find,” he said, his tone quieter now, “that she is not easily directed.”
“Of course, you know I have already found that.”
“And yet you have married her?”
“I have.”
Roderick nodded slowly. “Then I suppose you will both have your work cut out for you.”
Maxwell did not answer.
The conversation did not continue after that. It did not need to. The understanding, whatever it was, settled between them without further words.
By the time Maxwell returned to Arabella’s side, the gathering had begun to thin. The afternoon light had softened, the edges of the garden less sharp, the voices quieter as guests took their leave.
“You have been abandoned,” Arabella said lightly as he approached, though her smile suggested she had not minded in the slightest. “Or perhaps I have been the one to abandon you.”
“You were occupied,” Maxwell replied.
“I was,” she said, her expression brightening once more. “Jane has recently returned from Bath, and Cissie insists that she has heard the most scandalous account of a certain gentleman who—” She paused, catching herself, her eyes flickering briefly toward him. “Well. It is not a story for today.”
Maxwell inclined his head slightly. “As you wish.”
She studied him for a moment, as though gauging whether he expected more, then seemed satisfied when he did not press her further.
“They are delightful,” she continued, falling into step beside him as they made their way toward the carriage. “I had not realized how much I had missed such company. It has been some time since I have attended anything of this sort.”
“That is evident,” Maxwell said.
She glanced at him, her lips curving. “You disapprove?”
“I said no such thing. I am simply observing my wife.”
“Fine then, keep your thoughts to yourself. Are we ready to depart?”
“Beyond so,” Maxwell said tightly, gesturing for her to lead the way.
They reached the carriage, and Maxwell offered his hand once more. She took it without hesitation, gathering her skirts as she stepped inside. He followed shortly after, the door closing behind them with a muted finality that separated them from the lingering noise of the garden.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Arabella drew in a small breath, her energy returning as though it had only been waiting for the right moment.
“I should like to invite them,” she said, turning toward him.
“Jane and Cissie. To the house. It would be improper not to return the kindness, and I believe they would enjoy seeing it.”
Maxwell regarded her for a moment before answering. “You should invite them.”
Her expression brightened at once. “Truly?”
“Of course.”
“That is very generous of you,” she said, the sincerity in her tone unguarded. “I shall have a note sent at once. Or perhaps tomorrow. It would be better to allow for proper notice.”
“Whenever you see fit.”
She nodded, already considering the details, her hands moving slightly in her lap as she spoke. “We might host a small tea. Nothing too grand. Though I suppose it will depend on the number of guests they wish to bring. And the weather, of course. One never knows how it will turn.”
Maxwell listened without interruption, his gaze resting on her as she spoke. There was an ease to her now that had not been present before, a lightness that seemed to grow the more she spoke, as though the world she had stepped back into suited her in ways he had not fully understood until now.
The words came readily to her, her expression animated, her attention wholly engaged in the future she described.
And beneath it, the thought returned.
The week was over.
The understanding they had reached, the delay he had allowed, the space he had given her to adjust. It had all been measured, deliberate.
He watched her as she spoke, noting the curve of her mouth, the way her gaze bounced as she considered one detail after another. She was not thinking of it. Not in the same way.
“Arabella.”
She paused mid-sentence, her attention returning to him at once. “Yes?”
The carriage rocked gently beneath them as it continued through the streets, the fading light slipping through the window at her side.
Maxwell held her gaze, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then, more quietly, “It is the eighth day we are wed,” he began.
She stilled.
The shift was immediate, subtle, but unmistakable. The ease in her posture tightened, her hands stilling in her lap as the meaning settled between them without needing to be spoken in full.
“Yes,” she said, her voice softer now.
The space between them felt smaller, but Maxwell did not look away, and neither did she.
And as the carriage slowed, the wheels crunching softly over the gravel of the drive, the silence that followed carried far more weight than anything either of them had yet said.