Chapter Thirteen #2
So, he did his best to swallow his distaste for the activity and dutifully escorted his wife through one after another of London’s premier shops.
He had to admit, the speed with which Victoria spent money was astonishing.
To place such large and extravagant orders was a new experience for Rafe, who, while he’d always had the relative safety of an old title and credit upon which to fall back when it came to necessities, had been forced to choose a priority rather than spend indiscriminately.
He’d needed to decide whether it was more important to spend his limited funds on the image he presented to Society, or an excess of comforts behind closed doors.
So, the staff had been whittled down to the bare necessities, unnecessary rooms had been closed up, he’d quietly sold off whatever holdings were not entailed, and he’d opted, instead, to keep up on his outward appearance.
Rafe had purchased the best clothing he could afford, kept the most elegant carriage, and maintained a membership at Duke’s, the most exclusive gentleman’s gambling club.
The generations of estate mismanagement had left him in dire straits, and it was a never-ending task to disguise.
This shopping excursion was proof that Victoria had never experienced such concerns or deprivation.
She was like a fairy who simply had to point at something she enjoyed and knew without a doubt that it would materialize in her home.
Knowing what he did about the increasing number of impoverished peers desperately grasping onto old ways while struggling to maintain unattainable facades, Rafe wondered if women such as his wife were the way of the future for the English aristocracy.
In a world gradually beginning to shift away from the old agrarian ways of tenant farmers, ancient titles with undiversified holdings were not accruing the same income they had in prior decades.
Rafe was far from the only aristocrat in need of a rich wife, but his needs had been made more immediate by the adoption of his wards.
Lord knew Rafe would have been in serious trouble in a matter of weeks had he not convinced Victoria to wed him.
Victoria said little to him as she made her purchases, never once bothering to question a price or haggle with a shopkeeper.
In fact, she hardly looked in his direction.
At first, he’d been content to watch the sway of her hips, the tilt of her head, the shape of her bosom and arms beneath the blue spencer she’d added to her outfit, but, as pleasing as she was to behold, he found he missed the sound of her voice and the curve of her smile when she did converse with him.
Oh, yes, he’d wounded her.
Of course, Rafe regretted damaging her feelings, but he was unsure how to make things right. What he had said had been the truth.
Theirs had not been a love match.
Victoria may not have known just how much money and dowry had played into his proposal at the time, but neither of them had ever professed to be in love with the other.
Her notions of fidelity in such an arrangement were simply unrealistic in today’s Society.
He could count on a single hand the number of men he knew who were still faithful to their wives.
And call him cynical or whatever you would, but those marriages had not been all that long-lived as of yet.
He did not wish them ill, but he believed himself a realist. There was plenty of time for both those husbands and wives to seek pleasure outside of their marital beds when the novelty of explosive emotions wore off.
He never understood why people prided themselves on honesty, but only when it pertained to the admission of such impermanent and damaging emotions as love.
Why was it any less welcome when he attempted to set realistic expectations for the future of his marriage?
He’d always felt Victoria was more levelheaded than most Englishwomen, so why had she taken such exception to his words?
Love was not in his repertoire. Love was not something to which he ever aspired.
He’d only ever seen the wreckage left in the wake of those who claimed to feel love.
Even if he believed himself capable of experiencing the emotion, why in God’s name would he ever wish to?
As he saw it, he was saving both of them a great deal of pain and heartache.
Rafe remained contemplative and complacent as they strolled through the streets, shadowed by their footman who carried the smaller packages and occasionally ducked back to the carriage to deposit them.
The rest of the purchases would be delivered directly to the Townhouse later that day or would arrive in the coming weeks, after they had been crafted to Victoria’s specifications.
Though she touched him as little as possible, she could not refuse to link her arm with his as he guided her along the street.
He had to admit, he enjoyed her nearness more than was reasonable.
She was lovely that day—even beautiful. She was effortlessly graceful and elegant, confident in her place, and he found it enchanting.
Suddenly, there was a tug on his arm as Victoria’s steps halted in front of a shop. The glass-paned windows presenting displays of children’s toys had caught her eye.
“The children have enough toys,” Rafe said not unkindly, both because it was the truth and because he, too, had often fallen prey to the desire to bring gifts home to them nearly every day—even when his purse had been pitifully light.
“They are quite spoiled,” he added as a warning.
One area he’d refused to skimp upon was the children’s happiness.
If he went without fresh beef that week, then he would gladly do so, so they might have new clothes for their ever-growing bodies or a few new toys to bring light back into their eyes.
Victoria stared determinedly through the window, her eyes dancing over the wares with interest. The evidence of her warming up to his nephew and nieces so quickly despite their unconventional meeting did curious things to Rafe’s insides. Was that a flutter?
“I think it might be a nice gesture to give them something from me. They’ve endured enough change in their short lives that I would like to make this transition as simple and as welcoming as possible.”
Rafe could not argue with that logic, so he guided his wife into the shop without further protestation.
He watched silently as she touched and examined some of the displays, fingered a colorful fabric-covered papier-maché sphere with a basket suspended beneath it like a balloon he’d once witnessed in Hyde Park.
She reverently petted the dark curls on a porcelain doll’s head and adjusted another’s impractical, pristine white pinafore.
“I thought you said you did not know much about children,” Rafe commented idly as she bent at the waist to look into the face of a carved wooden soldier dressed in red wool.
Victoria lifted one shoulder and continued her perusal.
“I do not. I have only common sense.” A miniature horse cart, complete with mule and driver, caught her eye next.
“I longed for comfort and normalcy after my mother passed, and I would have resented anyone who attempted to step in and disrupt it. This might go a long way toward building a bridge between us.” Again, Rafe could not argue with the logic.
He had never known life with his own mother, and he’d been relieved at his father’s passing, so he had never been in the situation Victoria described; however, he could see how it might make sense if one felt a modicum of affection both to and from one’s parents—especially as a child.
These weeks had not been a comfortable transition for any of the children, like donning a pair of boots cut incorrectly and being told they were meant to fit.
He hoped this gesture from Victoria would help ingratiate her with the children and mark the beginning of her finding her niche in his life.
Eventually, Victoria thoughtfully selected a toy for each of the children—a wooden sword for Dom, a new doll for May, and even a silver rattle for Faith.
Rafe requested that the shopkeeper have them wrapped and delivered to their address that day, before they exited the shop and stepped back onto the street.
“Dominic is quite high-spirited, is he not?” Victoria mentioned lightly as they resumed their stroll through the crowds.
Rafe scoffed. “That is one way of putting it.” His house had been a great deal lonelier without the children, but there had also been a great many more fragile items in one piece.
“Why do you believe that is?”
“Likely because he is only a boy. That is how they are,” he replied matter-of-factly.
She made a thoughtful hum. “I may be wrong, but I wonder if it might be in part because he is hurting and does not know how to express it. He lost both parents less than a year ago, and he is old enough to feel those losses quite keenly. My brother was around his age and suffered similarly after our mother’s death. ”
He’d known Victoria’s mother had passed of lung congestion following a particularly bitter winter, but he hadn’t considered it as a way to afford her beneficial insight into the children’s temperaments, as morbid as that was.
He covered her gloved hand with his and applied just enough pressure to reassure her that he heard her and appreciated her opinion.
He remained silent and contemplative as they continued walking.
The afternoon began to wane by the time they entered a shop where Victoria might order a few new pairs of warm gloves and have them made in plenty of time for winter.
She had nothing in her current wardrobe to carry her through the colder months, and it had been decided that it would be more efficient for her to have most of those items made rather than ship them from America.