Page 10

Tell stories.

But then her husband had to go and ruin it.

At his words, that strange accord crumbled like dust before her. She had been…enjoying their day together, recalling some of the way he was when they first were about to wed.

“I was told by one tutor who my governess suggested to correct my speech that another part of the mind takes over when something comes from memory.” She did not mention that the tutor also called her a simple Irish female with no more wits than a daisy.

Not wishing to have this conversation in public, she marched back to the carriage and flung open the door. By the time James caught up with her, Mariah had already tamed her features, ensuring she presented an image of unruffled composure as she turned to face him.

Steeling her resolve, Mariah reminded herself to be wary as the gentleman to whom she was legally bound ascended into the carriage. He settled upon the velvet squab opposite her, utilizing his walking stick with a practiced, aristocratic grace to signal their departure to the coachman.

“I do not know why you look so Friday-faced, this is great news. This means it can be corrected.”

Curse the man for being so handsome. He leaned forward as he spoke, his eyes alight with something akin to joy. Joy that she could be fixed.

“I told you, my lord, that c-countless tutors were hired to fix me, but I could n-not be fixed.” Mariah drew a heavy breath, willing her face to remain neutral, willing it to become a mask. She could not let him see how hard she tried. The memory of that slight trace of disappointment on her father’s face flickered to the forefront.

“But you don’t stutter much when you speak Gaeilge, do ya?”

“No, Da, but in English, I have to think it through more, then my mind⁠—”

Across from her, her husband sputtered. “Now, I didn’t say fixed⁠—”

“You didna have to.” The words came before she could stop them, and she cursed the way the lilt came into her voice the angrier she grew. “You have likely spent less than a fortnight in my presence since we wed. Since you welcome m-me in your bed, I can hardly think that is the issue.” She was sure that heat traveled up her throat at her salacious words, but she did not care as her husband’s eyes heated before her. “Therefore, I have had to draw the conclusion that you are either ashamed of my speech, my Irish heritage, or my background in trade. Two are immutable facts, and yet one…I’m sure in your m-mind, one could be changed.”

It was extraordinary to behold her husband so remarkably incapable of speech, given that he navigated the world with his charm and silver tongue. Nevertheless, he sat across from her at that moment, his mouth gaping like a fish.

After a moment, he closed his mouth, though he did not meet her eye. “I am not—that is not why I stay...I have no problem with the Irish.”

Surprised, in spite of herself at his response, Mariah prayed that surprise did not show on her face. “Ah, then your long absences while you spend my father’s money are likely caused by the other two f-factors.” She swallowed, steeling her spine. She was not a hard person. Indeed when she was a girl, she had been accused of being a dreamer. But life in Barnsley was hard. Famine and smoke often obscured dreams, made the beauty of life a muted, faded thing, until it was no more than soot on the air.

“I—” her husband closed his mouth abruptly once more. He raised his hand as if he wished to say something more, but lowered it slowly when it was clear no words were coming.

“I spent years attempting to rid m-myself of this, but to no avail. If you have hope that it will d-disappear into the ether…you will be sorely disappointed.”

“Mariah,” his voice was almost a plea.

She looked at him in that moment. His long golden hair hung forward, his light eyebrows furrowed. In displeasure that she had made him uncomfortable? Or was there something more there? Her heart teetered on the edge of softening or hardening when they hit a large bump in the road.

“It is of n-no matter,” she said after they both recovered from the bump, which provided a moment to pull away from the intensity of their previous conversation. “Tomorrow I was planning to help the children run through the pieces from Henry V before the veterans come in a few days. A f-final rehearsal of sorts. While the assembly hall is in no fit state for a performance, perhaps we could better fortify the building just for the time being…” Too many what ifs soared through her mind and she closed her eyes, grounding herself by grasping the velvet squab beneath her.

When she opened her eyes again, her husband’s gaze was directly upon her. She had forgotten what pale blue irises he possessed, rather like a twilight sky on a clear day. A day one would never see in Barnsley. She had not allowed herself to appreciate the beauty of those pale eyes since their wedding, yet they struck her now, and her pulse began to beat wildly at her throat. She despised the deep attraction she still felt for the man, even if he disappointed her as a human being and resolved to ignore it as much as humanly possible. A few moments of accord did not a true marriage make.

“You take on much, my lady.” was all he said as he leaned back across from her.

“Someone has to,” she muttered to herself more than him, and they spent the rest of the ride back to Bailey Hall in silence.

4

“In London, this would be considered quite early by ton standards.”

“Yes, my lord.” Pickett, his valet, fastened the buttons of his brocade waistcoat the next morning with an impassive countenance, the garment's bright yellow shade at odds with the dismal gray mist that blotted out the horizon, even at Bailey Hall. Pickett had never mastered that penchant for sarcasm James had occasionally observed in other gentlemen’s valets, preferring a sort of stoic devotion to the role. Oddly, Pickett’s stoicism made James miss the miniscule twitch of his wife’s lips when he provoked her, often the only hint of her thoughts or feelings below the surface.

“Is Lady St. George still in residence?” James attempted to inquire off-handedly as Evans helped him into his coat and brushed the shoulders.

Pickett’s fingers paused at the question.

“Pickett?”