Chapter Sixteen #4
After dinner—during which an energetic debate arose over whether the wedding cake should adhere to classical symmetry or mathematical beauty—they retired to the drawing room.
The fire burned low and golden, shadows flickering over books and paintings, and for once, there was no scandal to contain, no crisis to endure.
Catherine was sketching modifications to the house plans, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration.
Timothy sat nearby, pretending to read but actually watching her with an expression of such naked adoration that Marianne had to look away from the intimacy of it.
Adrian was reading correspondence, though his free hand played absently with Marianne’s hair where she leaned against him.
“This is nice,” Marianne said suddenly.
“What is?” Adrian asked, glancing up from the letter he clearly hadn’t read.
“This. Peace. Catherine happy. You calm. The baby thriving. It’s... pleasant.”
“Suspiciously pleasant,” Adrian said at once, alert. “Something must be about to go wrong.”
“Must you always expect disaster?”
“I don’t expect it. I anticipate it. There’s a difference.”
“And that difference is...?”
“Expectation implies certainty. Anticipation implies readiness.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m careful.”
“You’re catastrophising.”
“I’m catastrophising carefully. With mathematical precision.”
Catherine looked up from her sketch. “You two bicker like an old married couple.”
“We are a married couple,” Marianne pointed out.
“Yes, but only for months, not decades. You sound like the Weatherbys. They’ve been married forty years and argue every morning about the proper temperature of tea.”
“We don’t have the same argument,” Adrian objected.
“You argue daily about your overprotectiveness,” Catherine said.
“Those are different arguments about the same topic. Entirely distinct thing.”
“You’re impossible,” Marianne said fondly.
“You’ve mentioned that before.”
“It bears repeating.”
The butler entered then with his usual impeccable timing. “Your Graces, Mr Whitcombe has arrived.”
Edmund Whitcombe swept in like a force of nature, bringing the smell of tobacco and the docks and London commerce with him. He was still in his business clothes, suggesting he’d come straight from his warehouses.
“There’s my girl! Good grief, you’re enormous!”
“Papa!” Marianne protested, but she was smiling as she struggled to rise from the sofa.
“Don’t get up, don’t get up—you’ll unbalance yourself and topple over.” He kissed her cheek with rough affection. “Round as a Christmas pudding! That’s my grandchild making you spherical.”
“Everyone seems obsessed with my shape,” Marianne said, laughing.
“Because it’s a glorious shape! That’s my grandchild in there, making you round as a full moon.” He kissed her again, then turned to Adrian. “Still hovering, I see.”
“I don’t hover,” Adrian said automatically.
“You’re hovering right now. You’re practically vibrating with the need to hover more efficiently.”
“I’m standing protectively.”
Edmund pulled a chair close to Marianne, the furniture scraping against the floor with a sound that made Adrian wince. “How are you really, puppet? And none of that duchess speech about being perfectly well. I want the truth.”
“I’m wonderful,” Marianne said honestly, covering his rough hand with hers. “Tired, sometimes queasy, frequently emotional, occasionally convinced I’m carrying a particularly energetic octopus, but wonderful.”
“And this one?” Edmund jerked his thumb at Adrian. “Driving you mad with fussing?”
“Only moderately. He’s on his fourth medical text about childbirth.”
“Fourth?” Edmund said, aghast. “Goodness, boy—planning to deliver the child yourself?”
“I like to be prepared.”
“You like to terrify yourself with dreadful possibilities.”
“I am present, you know,” Adrian said with wounded dignity.
“We know,” Edmund said cheerfully. “You’re hard to miss—like a very well-tailored storm cloud.”
Before Adrian could retort, Edmund pulled a small package from his coat. “As for the wedding, I’ve brought something.”
Inside lay an exquisite lace veil—so delicate it seemed spun from moonlight and spider silk, roses and ivy woven in intricate design.
“Mama’s?” Marianne breathed, eyes filling.
“Her mother’s before that,” Edmund said, his voice roughened with feeling. “Been in the family near a century. Thought Catherine might wear it—make her properly family.”
Catherine’s eyes glistened. “Mr Whitcombe, I couldn’t—it’s too precious—”
“Of course you can. Of course you must. You’re Marianne’s sister now—that makes you my daughter by extension. Daughters wear family veils. Tradition.”
“But it’s your family’s tradition, not mine—”
“You are family,” he said simply. “You have been since you stood beside Marianne at that Worthington débacle. Anyone who faces down society for my girl belongs to our family.”
Catherine carefully touched the lace with trembling fingers. “It’s beautiful. The craftsmanship is extraordinary—look at these knots, Timothy. The precision required to create this pattern—”
“And she’s crying over mathematics,” Edmund said to Adrian. “You’ve found yourself a strange family, Harrowmere.”
“The strangest,” Adrian agreed, warmth threading his voice. “And the best.”
“Don’t go soft on me. I’ve a reputation to maintain. Can’t have people saying Edmund Whitcombe’s turned sentimental.”
“The fearsome merchant king caught indulging in sentiment—what a scandal,” Adrian said drily.
“Exactly. Bad for business.” Edmund turned to Timothy. “Speaking of business—how’s your financial situation, young man? Need me to look over anything?”
“I’m quite secure, sir,” Timothy said. “My architectural practice is modest but growing, and I have a small inheritance from my grandmother.”
“Modest won’t keep the lady in the style she’s accustomed to.”
“I don’t need style,” Catherine protested. “I need Timothy.”
“You need both,” Edmund said practically. “Love is all very well, but it doesn’t heat the drawing room. How much is this modest inheritance?”
Timothy named a figure that made Edmund’s brows shoot upward.
“Your grandmother Adelaide really was a wealthy woman.”
“You knew her?”
“Knew her? She was one of my first investors! Sharp as a tack, that woman. Nearly ruined me with her terms, but she was right in the end. Made us both rich.”
“She spoke highly of you,” Timothy said. “Called you the only honest merchant in London.”
“She was the only honest aristocrat, so we were evenly matched.” Edmund turned to Catherine. “You’re marrying into good stock, girl. Adelaide had the finest business mind I ever met—present company excepted,” he added with a nod toward Marianne.
The rest of the evening unfolded in cheerful disorder—wedding plans tangled with trade discussions, Edmund and Timothy discovering half a dozen mutual connections in shipping and finance. Adrian watched, amused, as his formidable father-in-law all but adopted his sister’s fiancé on the spot.
When Edmund finally prepared to leave, he drew Adrian aside while the others admired the veil.
“You’re doing well, boy.”
“Am I?”
“Better than I expected when you swept my daughter off her feet with all that ducal theatrics.”
“I believe she did her share of sweeping.”
“True enough. Whitcombe women are forces of nature.” Edmund glanced at where Marianne and Catherine were laughing over something, the veil spread between them like captured starlight. “Take care of her—of both of them.”
“With my life.”
“Good man. Still too dramatic, but good.” He hesitated, then added, “And Adrian—when the baby comes—and it’ll come sooner than you think, they always do—remember that Marianne’s stronger than she looks. Your task is to support, not panic.”
“I don’t panic.”
“You’ve read four medical texts.”
“That’s research, not panic.”
“It’s panic with footnotes.” Edmund clapped him on the shoulder. “But panic born of love, which is the best kind.”
After Edmund left and Catherine had retired to her room to dream of vows and honeymoons, Adrian and Marianne retreated to their chambers. The room was warm from the fire Sarah had built up, casting everything in golden light.
Adrian helped Marianne undress with practised gentleness, his hands reverent on her changed body. Each button was undone with care, each lace loosened with attention. When she stood in her shift, the firelight making the thin fabric translucent, he knelt before her, his hands cradling her belly.
“Hello, little one,” he murmured. “Your mother and I have been preparing for you. Your aunt is behaving absurdly about mathematics and wedding arrangements, and I, apparently, am hovering. But we’re all waiting.”
“You’re talking to the baby again.”
“Some say it does them good to hear familiar voices.”
“Some say many things.”
“Do not mock my process, woman. I’m being thorough.”
She ran her fingers through his hair, dark silk against her pale hands. “You’re being wonderful.”
He looked up at her, and the expression on his scarred face made her heart ache. “Am I? Because it feels as though I’m failing constantly. Not protecting you enough, protecting you too much, preparing badly—”
“Adrian.” She cupped his face, her thumb tracing the familiar scar that had become as dear to her as all the rest of him. “You’ll be a wonderful father.”
“How can you know that?”
“Because you already worry like one. Because you care so much it frightens you. Because you’ve learned to love when you once thought you couldn’t.”
He rose, drawing her back against his chest, his hands spread over where their child grew. “I love you both so much it almost hurts.”
“That may be indigestion.”
“Marianne!”
“What? You eat too quickly when anxious.”
“I’m having an emotional revelation, and you’re critiquing my dining habits?”
“Someone must keep you grounded.”
He turned her in his arms and kissed her—slow, deep, and entirely consuming. When at last they parted, both breathless, he rested his forehead against hers.
“Soon, Catherine will be married.”
“You’ve mentioned.”
“She’s my baby sister.”
“She’s two-and-twenty.”
“She’s still my baby sister.”
“Who’s marrying a man who adores her.”
“Who writes mathematical poetry.”
“Which she loves.”
“Which is deeply disturbing.”
“Adrian?”
“Yes?”
“Take me to bed and stop thinking about your sister’s wedding.”
“That’s an excellent suggestion.”
Later—much later—as dawn crept through the curtains and painted patterns on the ceiling, they lay entwined, Adrian’s hand making lazy circles on her belly.
“Do you think we’re ready for it all?” he murmured. “A child. Catherine married and gone. Becoming proper parents?”
“I think,” Marianne said softly, “that no one is ever truly ready. But we shall manage it—together.”