Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“He really is so funny, and so clever, though I would die from shame if he were ever to hear me say so!” Philippa exclaimed the next day as she watched Mrs. Thatcher knead a leavened dough.
“Did you feel the same way when you were first courted by Mr. Thatcher? Excited but embarrassed at the same time? Wanting to be with him always, but also maintain your independence?”
“Our situations could not compare.” Mrs. Thatcher laughed, wiping a curl of hair out of her face and smearing flour on her forehead.
“There was no courting to be had. Our fathers agreed on a wedding between us without consulting either me or Mr. Thatcher first. My dowry was a plot of land. Far from the romance you experience these days.”
“What a sad little story.” Philippa leaned over to grab a tea towel and dabbed the flour from Mrs. Thatcher’s face. “Every woman deserves to be courted. That is my belief. How can she know whether she will fall in love with a man if she does not allow herself to be courted by him first?”
In the corner of the room, Amelia paused her reading. She leaned over a ledger of expenditures, quill in hand, copying recent grocery orders. She side-eyed Philippa, who continued kicking her feet back and forth happily, sitting on the kitchen island at the orphanage.
“We shall have to agree to disagree,” Mrs. Thatcher answered, shaping the dough into four loaves with practiced ease. “A woman need not be courted by a man whom she knows is true of heart. If he is honest, that is all that matters.”
“No, you are wrong there.” Philippa hopped down from the island and dusted off her linen skirts.
“There are men who appear honest and good at first but reveal themselves to be boors over time. I doubt I shall have that trouble with Mr. Elston. Oh, look, that reminds me! Let me show you what he bought me.”
She skipped over to Mrs. Thatcher and pushed her blonde hair away from her ears, revealing two delicate pearl earrings embedded in rings of gold.
“He gifted these to me yesterday evening, saying that he wanted to mark the beginning of our courtship with something equal to my beauty.” She placed a hand over her heart.
“Such a touching gesture. He almost made me feel bad for forcing him to wait so long to court me. It has been years, you know. But good things come to those who wait, that is what I told him. And I think he agrees.”
Amelia tried and failed to return her focus to the ledger. She stared daggers at Philippa, feeling uncharacteristically jealous.
Mrs. Thatcher lowered her loaves into greased tins and placed them in the oven to proof. Once she was done, she caught Amelia’s eye and frowned. Amelia quickly looked away, guessing her expression had betrayed her envious thoughts.
“Miss Ashwood,” Mrs. Thatcher suddenly said, dusting off her hands. “Will you help me upstairs with something?”
“What something?” Philippa asked, crossing her arms.
Mrs. Thatcher sent her eyes heavenward, thinking. “Does it matter, Miss Ashwood?” she cried, reaching for Philippa’s hand. “Come now, quickly. Best we leave Her Grace to her counting for the moment.”
Groaning, Philippa was dragged to the door. Amelia glanced back at the two departing women, troubled by the sad and pitiful smile Mrs. Thatcher offered her as she pushed Philippa out of the room.
Alone, Amelia slammed the ledger shut, resolving to copy the recent grocery purchases another day.
When I am not so cross with the world, the task will be much easier, she thought, letting her head hang in her hands.
It was not Philippa’s fault that Mr. Elston treated her so kindly. Amelia believed her friend deserved to be loved in the way only devoted Mr. Elston could love her—wholly and unconditionally.
Yet I cannot help but compare their fledgling romance to my pretend marriage to Nicholas.
I feel like his dirty little secret—a duchess in name alone.
I know it will not be long before Aunt Beatrice asks why we have not gone down to London to present ourselves to the Queen and the Prince Regent, why there has been no bridal tour.
Not long, I am sure, until Nicholas casts me aside completely and this marriage is annulled.
Which is what they had agreed.
But the more time Amelia spent at Riverside Court, the harder she knew it would be to leave. Nicholas was a spectral figure at the house, coming and going whenever it pleased him, barely stopping long enough to dine with his wife. It made the rare moments in his company feel like blissful summer.
Warm and fleeting, bright and long.
And she had not forgotten the way it had felt to be touched by him.
Her body reacted violently to the memory of his ministrations. Her hand curled around the edge of the counter of its own volition.
Someone rapped on the door, promptly stifling her improper thoughts. Amelia, clearing her throat, bid them to enter.
“I had not expected to find you here alone.”
An all too familiar voice caused Amelia to spin around.
Nicholas stood in the doorway, dressed in a fine grey coat and matching britches. He held his hat at his side, a surprised smile gracing his cold-nipped face.
“I—I was merely attending to some bookkeeping,” Amelia stammered, her mouth going dry. “Had you… Had you mentioned you were coming today? You know how forgetful I can be.”
“No, not at all.” He stepped inside, finding a relatively clean spot to set down his hat. “I have just come from Mr. Claridon’s offices.”
“Your solicitor? Why?”
She tensed. Was he about to announce that he was putting an end to their marriage earlier than planned? It had been less than a week! Certainly not enough time to convince society that their marriage had been genuine.
“Primarily, the sale of the dower house. But there were other matters to discuss, too. He has been tasked with drafting a document for me.” Nicholas looked around the kitchen, visibly unimpressed by the state of the house. “A deed of trust for this home.”
“Pardon?” Amelia swallowed hard, her brow furrowing. “You mean for St. George’s? I never asked you to write a deed of that sort.”
“Yes, I know. But we had a verbal agreement, you and I, that I would see this place funded properly. I saw no reason to delay. The deed has officially institutionalized this orphanage. I considered a royal charter but felt that was highly unnecessary. Better to leave the orphanage under your control.”
“I… I hardly know what to say.” Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them away. “That was so very kind of you.”
“Ah, well.” He cleared his throat, visibly unnerved by her emotional response. “I am only acting as we agreed. The document is perpetual, with a yearly maintenance provided by the Avon estate until either my death or the closure of St. George’s.”
He crossed the room and stood before her, sliding her ledger toward him and opening it. He shrugged out of his coat, and Amelia took it.
“I am having Mr. Claridon write that miser Robinson to inquire about purchasing the building outright,” he added.
“I see no reason we should continue to rent for him. Should the orphanage fail, I could turn this house into a… Oh, Lord. Who knows? Apartments? Was that not what Robinson intended in the first place?”
Amelia nodded, barely containing her excitement. She watched Nicholas flip through the ledger and settle on the latest tables, oblivious to the magnitude of his kindness and its effect on her.
“I feel I must do something for you in return,” she murmured.
He arched a brow. “Tea will suffice. My agenda for this afternoon is painfully empty. I could—” He gasped, staring down open-mouthed at the pages. “Who the devil has been managing your accounts? Was it you? No, this will not do. Your ciphering skills are abysmal, Amelia.”
“Oh. I am… sorry?”
“No, I shall be sorry if I do not put these numbers to order immediately, especially if we are going to be purchasing this place.”
Largely ignoring her—who stood lamely, still holding his coat—Nicholas dragged a tall wooden stool around and set to work, raking a hand through his dark hair as he inspected the ledger before him.
Minutes later, she returned with a pot of tea. She placed it down beside him, smiling foolishly at the sight of him so hard at work, the furrow in his brow.
“You look drained already,” she said, pouring a cup for him. The scent of black tea wafted into the air. “My governess used to tell me that I had a mathematician’s mind, so I take offence at the notion that I could have mismanaged the accounts to the degree you say I have. Actually…”
She paused, dropping a teaspoon of sugar into his teacup and stirring, remembering that was how he took his tea. “Mr. Marsh tends to the books usually. He is likely to blame.”
“Then Mr. Marsh should return to the university whence he came and attend a few lectures on numbers.” Nicholas took the tea when she offered it to him and paused, inspecting the cup.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, placing it down again.
Though she swore she saw a quickly suppressed smile play on his mouth.
“Would you…” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “I had planned to rehearse the play with the children this afternoon. Would it bother you greatly if I abandoned you to your task?”
He turned to look at her. She had not realized she had been standing so close. Their proximity had felt… natural.
“I work quicker alone,” he said. “Do not trouble yourself on my account, Amelia. Be off.”
“Then I will ensure that you are not disturbed.”
“Please do.”
Amelia nodded with finality, untying her apron and leaving it on the counter. She turned at the entrance to the kitchens, stopping to look back at him.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Oh.” She smiled. “I am only thinking how glad I am that you did not become an actor after all.”