Jilly watched her husband devour a thick slice of kidney pie in what seemed to be no more than seconds, with no small amount of bemusement.
“My goodness,” she said, marking the faintly avaricious glance he had slanted at her own lunch. “One would think you weren’t being fed at Windclere.” But she pushed her plate across to him anyway.
For half an instant something shadowed his eyes, some unvoiced thought that clouded them briefly. “I skipped breakfast,” he said, with a crooked grin, as he tucked into her own barely-touched lunch. “Are you certain you don’t want it? You haven’t eaten much.”
“I’m certain,” she said. Something about it had disagreed with her just slightly, and she didn’t care to risk more of it. But James had no such compunction, clearly.
The village nearest Windclere was a cheerful little sort, with a kind of picturesque beauty that could only be found in the countryside. They had stopped for lunch at the inn, and the proprietress had been only to thrilled to host them, setting them up in a quiet parlor room near a large bay window that overlooked the lane outside. It was warm and sunny, and she could not imagine any place that she would rather be just now but seated across from her husband.
Those words still gave her that delicious skirl of pleasure—her husband. She had never thought they would apply to her, had never thought to attain this kind of happiness for herself. And sometimes she thought he feel precisely the same way, because just occasionally she caught him looking at her with something akin to wonder.
It made her breathless and giddy. Perhaps, when they’d been married a dozen years or so, her heart would stop pounding madly when he entered a room. But until then, she was afraid he was going to find that he had married an extremely giddy woman after all.
She’d never laughed as much as she did in his company, had never been so easily tempted into a bit of wickedness. Had never felt so frolicsome or carefree, as if he had effortlessly lifted away every last worry she’d ever clung to.
She hoped she gave him the same sense of absolute freedom, of lightheartedness, that he’d given to her.
She hoped she would always feel the same sort of breathless pleasure that assailed her when he reached for her hand, linked his fingers through hers. Married couples of their class rarely showed such affection toward one another in public, if indeed they felt it at all, but she loved those familiar touches, the way he brushed her hair away from her face or settled his palm on the small of her back.
If the inn’s proprietress disapproved of such things, she would never have known, for the woman simply collected the payment that James offered her and dipped a curtsey as they exited her establishment at last.
“You should have a parasol at least,” James said, as she shaded her eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun. “We’ll find one for you today.” And his fingers squeezed hers, a gesture that never failed to make her heart beat just a little faster.
She leaned her head against his shoulder for just a moment, enjoying the peace of the day, the happiness that unwound like a spool of thread inside of her until it filled up every place that had been vacant. She felt the quick kiss that he pressed into her curls with a sense of wonder, pondering how it was she had managed to bind this man to her.
She had thought she had had a peaceful life before him, but she hadn’t known what it was to be truly at peace. She had only been half-living after all. She had had a life that was not a life, had sealed herself off from anything that might have threatened the rigid order in which she had governed her days. This was peace—strolling hand in hand with her husband, as if they had nothing more important, more pressing to do than to enjoy one another’s company.
They paused outside of the post office when James was waylaid by some gentleman with a business concern.
“Do you mind, Jilly?” James asked her, when it became clear that the matter would take more than a moment. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“Not at all,” she said, pleased that she had not wed the sort of entitled nobleman who would so easily shrug off the concerns of those beneath him.
James withdrew his pocketbook and pressed into her hand, bussing a kiss to her forehead. “You should have a parasol,” he reiterated. “I’ll come find you when I’m through.”
She eased away to give the men a bit of privacy and slipped first into the post office. She’d meant to give her letter to Bartleby to post, but she’d quite forgotten about it, and so she’d slipped it into her pocket instead with the intention of mailing it in town.
Even if there had been no official announcement yet, even if she had wanted to avoid the inevitable deluge of letters that would soon come pouring in, David at least should know. He was her brother, and she should have informed him of her marriage immediately. Or as immediately as could be expected, given that he was currently traipsing around Scotland, and she’d known him to go weeks without touching his correspondence.
Still, a late letter was better than no letter at all, she supposed. For all the good it would do anyway. Probably he wouldn’t even have noticed she’d gone missing.