“Husbands and wives don’t have to live with each other.” Rose fluffed more powder on her friend’s face. “At court, it seems hardly any of them do.”
Violet stared at her, her brown eyes looking huge through her spectacles. “But those are marriages made for alliance, not love. That’s not what you want, is it?”
“Of course not,” she said, still fluffing.
“Stop!” Judith laughed, brushing at her dressing gown. White powder flew everywhere. Particles coated the surface of her dark wood dressing table and floated in a sunbeam that came through the window. “Edmund won’t be able to find me under all this powder.”
“Sorry.” Rose dusted more on her own cheeks, though her scratch was all but healed. “Is Lord Grenville nervous?”
“He doesn’t seem to be. But then, he’s been married before. He’s not worrying about tonight.”
Violet touched her hand. “Are you worried, Judith?”
“A little.” Looking away, Judith grabbed her goblet and took another swallow of wine. A big one.
“I think you’re a lot worried,” Lily said, prying the goblet from Judith’s fingers. She’d downed half a bottle already, and there were still hours left before her wedding. “You don’t want to be slurring your vows.”
“The marriage bed is nothing to fear,” Violet told her.
“Are you sure?” Judith asked.
“Of course she’s sure.” Rose nervously tweaked the bouquet of flowers she’d made for Judith to carry. “All brides fret about it, but they all survive, don’t they?”
“Are you fretting?” Violet asked her.
“Why should I fret? I’m not getting married.”
“But if you were?” Lily pressed.
“No, I wouldn’t fret.”
And it was true. She would never fret over the marriage bed—she’d never need to. Because after the humiliating failure of her sojourn at court, she feared more than ever that her wedding day would never come.
“Mama told me it would hurt,” Judith whispered.
Having read Aristotle’s Master-piece, Rose nodded knowingly. “Only for a moment.” The Master-piece described it as “a little pain,” and she believed that was true.
It would be nothing compared to the pain of the empty years yawning ahead of her.
FIFTY-SIX
“BASED ON THE upper floor’s loads,” Kit said, “I was concerned that with any additional loading the building would eventually collapse. As it stood, it was near the maximum tolerance of the span. I cannot believe I miscalculated something so basic.”
“Neither can I,” Wren said pointedly, pacing his office in Windsor Castle. Then his eyes narrowed as he stopped and turned to Kit. “Are you saying someone else miscalculated? Purposefully lengthened the span? Altered your plans?”
“I won’t say that.” Kit met the older man’s gaze. “The project is my responsibility. The error is mine, and I’ll absorb the costs of rebuilding.”
When he first started out, a problem of this magnitude might have landed him in debtor’s prison. Thankfully, he could easily afford it now.
Wren nodded as he walked him to the door. “This won’t go past this room. I expect the king will be pleased with the final results, even though you’ll miss the deadline. You’ll doubtless see more commissions, and your reputation won’t suffer.”
That was some consolation. Thanks to Wren’s confidentiality, Kit’s career wasn’t endangered.
Just his dreams. His knighthood. His chances of winning Rose.
“Thank you,” he told Wren as he opened the door. “Though the project won’t come in on time, it will be done right.”
“From you, I expect no less.” Wren watched him step outside. “I’m sorry about the appointment.”
“I wish Rosslyn well with it,” Kit said and closed the door behind him.
So that was that.
He took a deep breath and headed to Windsor’s Upper Ward to check the progress on the new dining room. Following a complete inspection, he felt a little better. Everything seemed to be proceeding well and on schedule. He had high hopes that the successful, timely completion of this beautiful chamber would help ensure more commissions from the Crown.
Somewhere in town, a clock struck noon, reminding him he’d best get on his way to Trentingham if he wanted to arrive at a decent hour. But he didn’t want to rush to Trentingham—not today. He felt drained. The interview with Wren had sucked the life right out of him.
Tomorrow morning would be better, he decided, heading out of the castle. He was in no hurry to confess his failure to Rose’s family, and that greenhouse was hardly an emergency. The groundbreaking wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow, anyway.
He looked forward to a long, hot bath, followed by a good night’s sleep. Here in Windsor, in his own peaceful, empty house, he’d doubtless rest easier than he had in weeks. Especially since he no longer had to worry about his projects. Or, he thought dejectedly, about whether he’d win the appointment he’d been working toward half his life.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Martyn,” the old guard called as he passed through the castle gate.
“Afternoon, Richards,” Kit returned.
The next thing he knew he was standing in front of a pawnshop.
His brother-in-law’s pawnshop, to be precise. Kit still had a difficult time thinking of Ellen as married. But something inside him knew he had to come to grips with that—the same something that had sent him here without conscious decision.
He hoped she fared well. And there was only one way to find out. He drew a deep breath and opened the door.
At the jingle of the bell, Thomas emerged from the back. “Mr. Martyn,” he said, clearly surprised. And apprehensive, Kit thought.
As they were kin now, for better or worse, he’d best set the fellow at ease. “Call me Kit,” he said. “Please.”
“Kit.” The younger man nodded.
“I’ve come to see my sister.”
If anything, Thomas’s eyes grew more hooded. “She’s upstairs. I’ll fetch her.”
“No. I’ll go up.”
“I’m sorry, sir—I mean, Kit. But I’m not sure she wants to talk to you.”
That hurt. Kit had hoped Ellen would be over her snit long before now. She’d won their battle, after all. She’d fought to live over a pawnshop, and live here she did.
He wanted to
