Chapter Twelve #2
Beginning again to knit, she made a few more mistakes while she watched him beneath her lashes.
Because she dared not raise her head, she could only see him from the chest downward, but he had a very…
arresting person. Especially when he had removed his academic gown and tossed it aside, revealing the blue coat which fit his broad shoulders and tapered waist, cutting away above his nankeen trousers.
His cap followed his gown, and when he raised a hand, Maria pictured him dragging it through his dark hair.
He paused, as if expecting or hoping she would speak again, but when she didn’t, he strode nearer the fire and bent to retrieve the letter, tilting it toward the firelight to read the direction.
Abruptly he straightened, and Maria heard his breath catch.
Furiously she continued to knit, or at least to move her needles in a knitting motion, though heaven knew what sort of tangle her blind knots were making.
Some dreadful collection of holes and twists which she would have to unravel—painstakingly—before she could continue.
Unless he was a very slow reader, he must have read the letter more than once, but at last he let it fall to his side.
“Mrs. Ellsworth.”
He had not said her name like this before. Gravely. Formally. No—he was always formal, but this was different, and she looked up sharply.
“Yes—Mr. Ellsworth?” It was ridiculous, she thought.
Like a play. No young person in her family addressed her spouse thus, or he her.
When Maria stayed at Keele’s, Mr. Weatherill had once even called Adela “Dellykins,” to Maria’s amusement and his own embarrassment.
And the Egertons were “Philip” and “Janie” when only family were about, and on his last leave Sarah’s husband had openly referred to her as “Sweeting,” even with the baron and Mrs. Dere present!
As for Frances, she and her husband only called each other “Mr. Hearne” or “Mrs. Hearne” when they meant to be teasing.
But Mr. Ellsworth and I must address each other as if we were Mr. and Mrs. Terry, or Mr. and Mrs. Markham Dere, when that man was alive!
Perhaps Mama called Papa “Mr. Barstow” sometimes, but I distinctly remember him saying “Camilla.” It is one of the few memories I have of him.
But maybe that was because he was ill and failing.
“Camilla.”
“My mother will be here tomorrow.”
“What?” She stared. “In Oxford?”
“Yes. She—sends us her love, and she will arrive tomorrow. If we don’t have room for her, she will put up at the Golden Cross a few days, but—if we do—she would stay with us at least a fortnight.”
Maria was speechless. Questions crowded her mind, too numerous to know where she should begin.
He took several slow steps toward her, collapsing into the nearest chair, looking equally dazed.
“I thought it was safe to write to them,” he muttered. “My parents. With the term beginning. I thought my mother would have months to grow used to the idea. I thought any—questions—could be answered in later letters. But she says she cannot wait to—know you better.”
Maria made a sound which emerged as “Grhlmph.” A mother-in-law! A French mother-in-law! What if she hated Maria? If she blamed her for being in that fateful inn bed which changed her son’s life?
His eyes met hers, and she was bewildered by their expression. Concern, yes, but also…pleading?
“Mrs. Ellsworth.”
“I wish—you wouldn’t call me that,” she blurted. “Don’t you see, if your mother comes—when she comes—there will be two Mrs. Ellsworths? Chop and Pork and Rundell will have to call us Mrs. Benjamin Ellsworth and Mrs.—Mrs.—”
“Mrs. Charles Ellsworth,” he supplied.
“Yes. Mrs. Charles Ellsworth, to distinguish us, and they will break their teeth on it.”
“Would you have me call you Maria, then?”
She swallowed. “Yes, please. I would prefer it.”
“Then you must call me Benjamin.”
Stifling a squirm at the thought, she nodded.
“Maria,” he tried it. Then, seeing it burned neither him nor her, he said more confidently, “Maria, you may read the letter, if you like, and though you will not find it there explicitly, I can promise you that my mother hopes to stay with us. I had written to her about our new home and endeavored to…put as good a face on the situation as possible.”
“Do you mean you tried to put a good face on our living situation, or on—the marriage itself? Why we married, that is.”
“Both.” He dug a finger under his neckcloth as if it were suddenly too tight.
“I didn’t lie about the Bolt in Tun. That is, I didn’t lie about the urgent need for us to marry and quickly.
But I didn’t want them to fret about it.
My mother, in particular. So I might have—I did, in fact—try to soften the blow. ”
“How?” breathed Maria.
“I led them to believe that it was all for the best because we—you and I, that is to say—happily—we woke up together, and it was a perfect coup de foudre.”
“I don’t know what that is.” She didn’t, but she had a guess, and dread was dawning.
Grimacing, he ran both hands through his hair now, leaving it rumpled and standing up. “It means a lightning bolt. Literally. But metaphorically it’s more like—like a revelation. Like—love at first sight.”
That had been her guess, and for the second time since the conversation began, Maria could find no words.
He hurried on. “So, what I am trying to say here is, my mother comes tomorrow, she hopes to stay with us for a fortnight, and she thinks we are in love. I’m sorry.
I should have foreseen this. She can be impulsive and is—deeply attached to Austin and me.
If I say to her that we haven’t room for her, she will return to Winchester after a few days, as she said, because my parents could not afford to stay longer at a hotel, but she will be hurt, and—”
“She will blame me,” concluded Maria. “She would know that you would like her to stay with us, so that, if she cannot, she will think me the obstacle.”
When he made no answer it was answer enough.
“But if she stays with us,” she went on, “she will discover your lie! She will see that we—aren’t coup de foudre—not by half.” And then it will be my fault again, Maria added inwardly, with a mixture of gloom and vexation. Nor did it mend matters when he did not bother to contradict her.
After a pause, wherein he said absolutely nothing, she added crossly, “Not to mention, where would you sleep if she came?”
“On the floor.”
“So that’s it, is it?” Maria flung up her hands.
“You lied and brought this upon us, and now I must—that is, we must—I must be inconvenienced and robbed of my privacy, and we must pretend—fondness—for each other for two whole weeks?” (It must be admitted she entirely forgot having told the same lie herself some hours earlier.)
Something flared in his dark eyes. “We are husband and wife, madam, if you’ve forgotten, whether we entered that contract willingly or not.
Which means we have no more privacy from each other than what we find pleasant or convenient to grant.
In this situation, it might be unpleasant, but it certainly is convenient, to dispense with it.
You needn’t worry that I’ll lay a finger on your precious, private self, though that would be within my rights as well. ”
“Oh, would it?” she cried, eyes sparking. “How—why, you!—how dare you threaten me!”
“Deuce take it! You call this ‘threatening’ you?” he snapped. “That’s exactly what I’m not doing! I am giving you my word that I will not press that particular, repugnant right, though I am well within the law—”
“Yes, yes, you told me! You are ‘within your rights’! Your right to bully and accost me!” she screeched. “I’ll have you know that—”
Thump—
thump—
THUMP.
Horrorstruck, with arms akimbo (her) and finger upraised (him), the Ellsworths broke off, their eyes meeting in uniform dismay before dropping to the carpet.
A moment of loud silence followed. Maria pictured Mrs. Chop or Rundell directly below, broom handle poised to strike again if so much as a peep was heard.
“I am positively mortified,” she whispered.
His finger moved to his lips, the light in his eyes metamorphosing from anger to amusement. “As you should be, Miss Spitfire.”
Sucking in a breath, she smothered a giggle. “That’s Mrs. Spitfire to you, sir.”
This drew that muffled snort from him which Maria was already beginning to think she loved above all things, and suddenly they were laughing together, almost soundlessly, in pantomime, the effort to be quiet about it striking them as even funnier until they were stealing grins at each other.
“You see?” she hissed, dashing tears of hilarity from her cheeks. “How can we possibly fool your mother? Even if we managed not to row during her stay, Chop or Pork or Rundell would be sure to tell her what a relief it was that we had declared a truce.”
“My mother won’t mind if we quarrel, so long as we reconcile. You’ll see. She speaks her mind as forthrightly as you do.”
“But Mr. Ellsw—Benjamin, wouldn’t it be better simply to tell her the truth? That, while we are not in love as you led her to believe, we are still—friends.”
For whatever reason this made him sigh. “Trust me. My mother would rather think we love each other and fight occasionally, than that we do not love each other at all. Come, Maria. It’s a little lie to make her happy and to keep the peace. Have you never told such a lie yourself?”
All at once, jogged by his words, it came to her that she had indeed told such a lie herself, only that morning, and for a more selfish reason.
Because hadn’t she told Miss Allen and Miss Hancock that she and Benjamin had already known and been fond of each other before they wed?
Yes, she had, and simply because she was too proud to let them think he married her only because he could not escape it.
“Very well,” she relented at last.
“Let her come.”