Her Unsuitable Match by Sally Britton
Thirteen
“What are we looking for at this one?” Myles asked his wife, looking up at the tall brick building before them.
“Furniture for our future home. When we find it.” She grinned at him and tugged upon his arm.
Myles escorted Philippa through the warehouse district, a place he had never visited before. A week had passed since their dinner with the Moretons, and Myles had spent every day except Sunday wandering about London in the mornings.
He returned to the house in the afternoon to meet with Gillensford to discuss the hospital and soldiers’ affairs. They would walk through a potential building sight the next day. Gillensford had hoped to secure an old building and repurpose it, but Myles had nearly convinced him that something built specifically for their purpose would prove a better investment.
During dinner the evening before, Philippa had asked if he would accompany her on what she called a “shopping expedition.” Though her phrasing had amused him, he hadn’t realized how literal she meant the phrase. They had started directly after breakfast, and he found himself wishing they had brought along elephants to ride and porters to carry a supply of food and water. It was nearly time to return to the house for dinner, and his feet hurt as they had during the longest of his military marching campaigns.
His wife had tried to engage him in conversation in the evenings, showing interest in his day and his work with her brother. He tried to avoid saying overmuch about the number of times he met people who knew her. Men and women who raised their eyebrows, made what they thought were cutting or witty remarks, then went on their way. He had even glimpsed her eldest brother the previous afternoon, and the man had pretended not to see him. More than a few people on the street saw that moment—a social slight, though not the cut direct.
Things weren’t getting any easier for either of them. Philippa’s remarks about her days always lacked any mention of visitors or friends, except for a few visits exchanged between her and Emmeline Moreton. Emmeline had won Philippa’s friendship quite easily, as Myles had hoped.
They entered the warehouse, where bolts of thick upholstery fabric hung on walls and furniture was scattered throughout large rooms. Rows of chairs stood together, each one intricately carved, and tables were in another room entirely. Philippa led him from one collection of couches to another, occasionally pausing to discuss the merits of a specific design. Myles tried to show an interest, though one chair looked the same as another to him.
Furnishings mattered a great deal more to his wife than to him.
A clerk followed them about with a notebook, jotting down observations Philippa made. Though they were not making a purchase today, the clerk had offered to send home with her a list of her favorite items and swatches of fabric. Setting up a home together would be a costly affair, with far more decisions than he had considered.
When they finally left the warehouse, Philippa twined her arm through his and smiled up at him. “I have never chosen furnishings before. Everything we have at our country estate is terribly old. And Elaine is only leasing the townhouse, which came with all its furniture. Starting with nothing is rather thrilling.”
“And expensive,” Myles added with a chuckle. “Have you given much thought to searching out a house in London?”
“Not yet. I cannot decide what size would be best for just the two of us.”
Just the two of them. For now. Though he hoped, by year’s end, she would consider adding children to their arrangement. Among other things. Marriage to a beautiful woman who had no intention of falling pregnant meant keeping his distance both physically and emotionally. Which proved harder the more time Myles spent near Philippa.
Her beauty was alluring, especially when she smiled or spoke of things which excited her. And she was clever. She read the newspaper and could converse on a number of topics. She enjoyed laughing. She adored her nieces and spoke often of the nephew away at school. He found everything about his wife utterly charming.
Which meant staying away from her as much as possible. Spending the long day walking through warehouses and shops with her had been difficult. For one thing, it meant fighting to keep his interest and growing awareness of her hidden. For another, the only distraction from his wife was the constant awareness of the crowds shifting and pressing in around them.
His head had started to ache an hour before they finished. And his shoulders carried the tension of the last week, try as he might to ignore it.
Back outside, horses came and went in the street at such speeds that Myles did not trust to cross them. Not with Philippa on his arm and a blind eye. “Let us walk a little more in this direction. Perhaps we will find a carriage for hire without crossing the road.”
“I knew we ought to have kept our driver,” she said. “Though I suppose it wouldn’t be fair to our horses to make them stand about all day, waiting for us.”
“Leave it to me.” Myles patted her hand reassuringly. They had gone a dozen steps more when a loud crash—the sound of metal striking something hard—exploded nearby. With the crash came a horse’s scream, and angry shouting as a driver tried to calm his beast. And Myles—Myles pulled his wife against the building nearest them. His heart raced within his breast, his head swiveling quickly as he tried to find the source of the sound—the source of danger. Blackness crowded in upon him. Another loud crash made him duck his head, forcing Philippa down with him for protection.
Cannon fire and the screams of men both roared within his ears so loudly that he shook, and then he felt his wife’s hand slip away from him. Someone shook him. Slowly the surrounding sounds faded away, leaving the worried words of his wife to float into his awareness.
“Myles? Is something wrong? Myles, are you unwell?”
He opened his eye, uncertain when he had closed it. Unaware of how much time he passed. He slouched against a building. Behind Philippa’s shoulder, traffic moved as normal on the street. Though he thought a few faces on the walk peered at him before their owners hurried by. Pretending not to see him, a grown man, behaving as a lunatic.
At last, he lowered his gaze to Philippa’s lovely face, pale now with worry, brow wrinkled in concern. Her beautiful eyes were large and fearful. Of him? Or for him?
He slowly adjusted his posture, still leaning a touch on the brick wall for support. “Did anyone see?” he asked quietly, his hands shakily adjusting the hem of his waistcoat, and then his jacket.
Philippa did not look away from him. “What happened?” she asked in a whisper he barely heard. “One moment we were walking, and suddenly you pulled me to this wall. And you looked as though you had seen some sort of horror.”
“That noise…” His words trailed away as his eye caught what had set off his war-wounded reactions. Several feet in front of him was a shop carrying pans and pots of all sizes, and a young man was stacking several in a cart. Perhaps he had dropped a few. Or slammed one against another. A completely innocent event. An innocuous sound.
Myles shook his head, trying to clear it further, while his face grew hot, and his stomach churned. His wife continued to stare at him, waiting for some kind of explanation.
“I think we had better return home,” he said at last, pushing himself fully upright. He offered her his arm without looking at her, and he felt her hesitation as she took hold of him again. He kept his eye forward until he found a carriage for hire. Then he assisted his wife inside and took the seat next to her, staring out the window. The way they sat, she was upon his scarred side. He hadn’t meant to do that, but sitting across from her would’ve invited more staring and scrutiny.
She did not let the silence last long. “What happened, Myles? Did you have some sort of dizzy spell? Or a faint?”
He shook his head. Refused to look at her. “Nothing of the kind. It will not happen again.” The sick feeling in his gut increased with those words. In truth, he couldn’t promise her such a thing. When Myles had first returned home, many noises had startled him. Loud shouts. A runaway horse. They had left him trembling and sick, lost in memories of war rather than aware of his present circumstances. But it had been months since he had experienced such a spell. He had hoped they were a thing of the past.
Like his dreams, these waking nightmares could come and go without warning.
Her slim fingers grazed his forehead, and Myles reacted without thinking. He snatched her hand away, whirling to face her with a fierce glare. He hadn’t seen her remove her glove or reach for him. Because of his half-blindness.
Her eyes went wide, but she held perfectly still. Watching him.
Shame raced through him with heat and speed. He gentled his hold upon her bare hand, then released it altogether. “I apologize. I am unused to being touched.”
Rather than appear offended or hurt, Philippa tipped her chin back. “I am checking you for a fever.” She put her hand up again, daring him to pull away as she glared. He held still, surprised that she would wish to try a second time. Her palm across his forehead was smooth and soft, a gentle touch that he yearned to lean into but dared not show such a need.
He wasn’t used to being touched, as he said. But he relished the simple contact. Especially as it was hers. Her hand on his arm had become common. But her skin against his? It was a beautiful rarity. Only ever accidental. And here she purposefully stroked the tips of her fingers against his forehead.
“Cool to the touch,” she said, confusion apparent in her deep blue eyes. She withdrew her hand but did not immediately replace the glove. “Myles, please tell me. Have you been ill? Did all our walking today over-tire you?”
Myles lowered his gaze to her hands in her lap, watching as she twisted her unworn glove. Admitting to the brokenness of his mind had never been easy. He had only explained it a few times before. To a doctor, who had advised rest and fortifying himself with liberal doses of laudanum. His mother and father, who had looked upon him with pain and helplessness. To Joshua Moreton, who then spent hours every day looking in on Myles.
How would his wife react?
“Perhaps we could speak of it later.” When he had time to decide how to tell her, how to explain that his weakness didn’t make him any less of a man.
“After dinner,” she said at once, that determined glint in her eye returning. “I will not be put off for long, Myles. If you are ill, I must know.” She gentled her stern words by laying her hand upon his, and he wished he had found reason to remove his gloves, too. What would his wife think if she knew his thoughts?
He nodded once in agreement, turning his gloved hand over to lace with her fingers. Offering a gentle squeeze, a nonverbal thanks, for her words. “After dinner.”
He did not know how he wanted their conversation to proceed. But he dreaded seeing pity in her eyes. Or disgust. They both fell silent for the remainder of the carriage ride, and Philippa had the kindness not to remove her hand from his.
* * *
Dinner that evening included guests,come to discuss the children’s school that Adam and Elaine had founded. Three couples joined them at the table, all married, and all from the highest points in the merchant class. Those not born to privilege, but to the knowledge of hard work, were far quicker to give to the little school to ensure it remained open and financially stable for years to come.
Pippa assisted Elaine in hostessing duties, but that didn’t serve as much of a distraction from watching her husband. He hadn’t shown any further signs of illness since their return to the townhouse. He also said as little as possible during the meal and afterward in the parlor.
When the guests left, the hour closer to midnight than Pippa liked, both couples climbed the stairs to the second floor of the house. Adam and Elaine drifted down one corridor, toward the stairs, in order to go up to the nursery as they did every night. To take one last look at their little ones before retiring for the evening.
That meant they did not see as Pippa stopped at her bedroom door and kept her arm securely tucked through her husband’s. “You haven’t found a valet yet, have you?”
He stared across the way to his bedroom and shook his head. “Not yet.”
Which meant his room would be dark, without a lamp or fire lit. Pippa sighed and pushed open her bedroom door, tugging him inside behind her. Quite suddenly, her husband dug his heels in.
“Wait—” He disentangled his arm from hers. “We can speak tomorrow—”
“I am not giving you the chance to slip out the door before I am even awake.” She stepped into her room and turned around, gesturing for him to enter. “Come in, Myles.”
He remained in the corridor, half in shadow, staring at her with one wide eye. “Are you certain?”
Though her cheeks warmed, Pippa couldn’t resist a short laugh. “I have no ill intentions toward you or your virtue, husband. I promise. I only wish to have a short conversation with you.”
For a moment, he glowered at her, though a flicker of humor had appeared in his eye. “I have no fear for my virtue, my lady. I am a married man, after all.” But his steps were hesitant. When she closed the door after him, he stepped hastily away from her, keeping to the wall rather than walking to the fire and the two chairs pulled up before it.
She had never heard of a man growing timid in a woman’s bedroom. Especially a married man. But perhaps she misunderstood the situation. Maybe he only wished for her to feel unthreatened. If so, his hesitancy struck her as most charming.
Pippa stripped off her gloves and dropped them on her dressing table, then she took her favorite chair before the fire. Once there, she plucked the waving white feather from her hair and dropped it onto the small table at her elbow. “Myles, please sit. Make yourself comfortable.”
He cast her a suspicious look before approaching, slowly. He sat in the chair as gingerly as if he expected to spring up again at a moment’s notice.
Did she make him nervous? Or did their topic of conversation unnerve him?
Pippa folded her hands together in her lap and studied her husband. How many times had she traced his profile with her eyes? Or wondered at what it must be like to wear an eyepatch, going through one’s life with half the sight one was used to? He had such a handsome face, even with the scars marring half of it. Tonight, he wore his usual stern expression. Though she saw the pull of muscles along his jaw that spoke of greater tension.
“Will you tell me what happened today?” she asked when they had sat in the quiet for so long, she knew he would not speak first.
Myles shifted, his gaze briefly meeting hers before darting to the fire again. “There isn’t a word for it,” he said, his voice so low that it mingled with the sound of the crackling fire. “Call it a waking nightmare, or the memories of war, if you like.” He shifted in his chair, removing his dinner gloves with an attention she knew they did not merit. “Today, I heard a sound. Something simple, that you likely did not even hear. But to my mind, it was deafening. It overwhelmed my senses and my mind. Instead of standing on the street beside a beautiful lady”—he smiled tightly up at her, as though he hadn’t even meant to offer the compliment—“I felt as though I stood in a field in France or Italy. Facing the enemy all over again.”
Turning that explanation over in her mind, Pippa cast her mind back to that confusing moment. Her husband had snatched her away from the walk and thrown them both against a solid wall. There he had stood, eyes blazing and face pale, unmoving except for a tremor that went through his body.
“I wanted only to escape,” he said, voice hoarse. “But how does one escape the ghost of a memory?”
“Is this the first time such a thing has happened?” she asked, studying him with new respect. Admitting to a weakness in body was one thing—but a man, admitting to an imperfection of mind? Unheard of, in her opinion. All British men were expected, even raised in such a way, to withstand the unpleasantness of the world around them with detachment.
“No.” Myles finally met her gaze, darkness mingling with pain in his expression. “Though it has been a long while since I have undergone such a…such a spell.”
“Have you spoken to a doctor?” Even as she asked, she had little hope regarding the answer. The human mind wasn’t something any physician could claim to understand.
Myles leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees. She looked down at them, noting the remnants of fingers on his left hand. Physically, he had lost much. But again, she wondered at all the scars she couldn’t see. Scars on his heart.
“The only doctor I spoke to urged me to get more rest. He theorized that a well-rested mind was less apt to make mistakes—thinking I am at war when I am only walking down the street. He also suggested opiates.” Myles shuddered. “But I will not risk myself or my future on something that forms a lifelong habit of use.”
“Did the rest help?” she asked, privately agreeing with his stance on taking something that would dull feelings rather than solve the problem.
“For a time. Through my own observations, I find that having a routine helps. Doing things to exercise my mind and body means a better rest at night. Sometimes, that keeps my mind from wandering into the past.” He shrugged and looked down again, flexing his hands. “I am sorry you had to witness a moment of weakness today.”
“You and I are married.” Pippa resisted the urge to reach out to him, to breach the distance between them with a touch to his hand. He hadn’t seemed to like her initiating such contact in the carriage. “We must look after one another. Now, and always. I want to help you, Myles. In whatever way I can.”
He looked up at her through a lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. One corner of his mouth tipped upward. “I should have told you about it before I agreed to marry you.”
Pippa shrugged and offered him a smile, attempting to reassured him. “I cannot see how it would have made a difference. You are an honorable man. You suited my every requirement in a husband.”
“There is more,” he said slowly, as though it pained him to admit to any other weaknesses. “The headache at the ball…that is not uncommon in such circumstances. One reason I attend the church in Chelsea is because of its size. There are never crowds of people inside. They wouldn’t fit.”
“Crowded events make you ill,” she said, “and when you are not rested, your memories of war assault you.” That would make life in the middle of London Society difficult for her husband. But then, many a woman went about town without her spouse. London’s elite accepted that the social whirl of dinners and dances was more for the benefit of ladies, anyway. Men merely put up with the parties and planning to appease wives.
When her husband clenched his hands into fists, she focused again on him. “Is there something else?” she asked, studying his features. “The more you tell me, the more I will understand how to help.”
A laugh preceded his scoff. “There is nothing you can do to help me, except exercise patience. There is more. I have nightmares. Vivid, disturbing dreams. I wake feeling lost, the scent of smoke choking me. Sometimes, I cry out. In my rented rooms, I disturbed the neighbors more than once.” He shuddered and dropped his face into his hands. Shame poured from him, until tears pricked at Pippa’s eyes.
“I think we ought to talk to another doctor,” she said softly. “A military doctor, perhaps, who may have seen such a thing before.”
“I know many men who experience such things. We do not speak of it often. It is only something understood between old soldiers.” Myles shuddered. “There is nothing a doctor will do.”
“How do you know?”
“One of your brother’s contacts in preparing the military hospital is the Royal Navy physician. Sir Gilbert Blane. Have you heard of him?”
It took her a moment to place the name. Then she nodded with some excitement. “He is one of the Royal Family’s physicians. I have heard of him.”
Myles leaned back in his chair and turned again to the fire. “He regularly tours the hospitals of the Royal Navy. One of the letters he sent your brother, about the hospital, suggested that a lunatic asylum would better serve the military. Most asylums in England hold dozens of former naval men apiece, you know.”
“I didn’t know,” she whispered. “A lunatic asylum? How is that helpful to one such as you? You are not mad. Only conversely affected by your memories.”
A gentle smile touched his lips before turning bitter. “For some, it is one and the same. Sir Gilbert has proposed that the best way to manage men with such difficulty isn’t to offer any treatment that would allow them back into the world, but he encourages that they become long-term residents of asylums and hospitals. And he has said that a strict schedule, something that encourages a man to maintain order in his life and around him, is the most beneficial thing. He suggested the hospital—or asylum—have extensive gardens for which the inmates will be responsible.”
“Gardens.” Pippa studied her husband. “I take it you are not much of a gardener.”
Myles released a mirthless laugh, shoving his left hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. “No. I am not a gardener.”
“Why do you leave the house every day?” she asked softly. “Is it worse for you, to be here?”
His expression changed again, his chin lowered while he looked up at her. “After we wed, I grew restless. I had more…vivid, shall we say, nightmares. I thought the answer would be to return to my old routine. Walking the city. Eating breakfast in a quiet cafe. Attending a club to read or engage in a boxing match.”
“But those things did not help,” she mused, tapping the arm of her chair. “Or perhaps they have, and things would be worse if you had not returned to your former schedule.” She stood and paced away from the fire, then back.
She had chosen Myles to wed based on his humble background, and his honorable behavior. Learning about his circumstances, how he lived with so little, had made her feel as though marrying would be a boon to him, too. Something which would improve his life. Yet she had put him into situations that disturbed his peace of mind.
The life of a London gentleman was likely just as uncomfortable for Myles as the life of a gardener would be. And yet he had agreed to it, because she had asked. Because he wanted to help her and do a kindness for his family and others. Myles had sacrificed to marry her.
Guilt smote her heart, and Pippa leaned her forehead against the mantel. Peering into the flames. “I wish I had known before,” she murmured softly. She might have done more for him. Instead, all she had worried over was the lack of invitations she’d received for balls and evenings of entertainment. Pining after crowds of people and diversion while her husband suffered nightmares.
And none of the people who made up those crowds even wanted her around. Not at present, while suspicion and scandal still clung to her reputation. With her own brother and mother determined to punish her for her independence.
Myles stood, and she turned to face him, ready to offer up more reassurances. But his expression stopped her words. He appeared utterly defeated, his shoulders slumped, and the corners of his mouth turned down.
“I should have told you before we spoke of contracts and marriage. You didn’t know what you were getting in a husband at all, did you?”
“That isn’t quite what I meant.” She tried to smile, but he was already shaking his head.
“I had best retire for the night and leave you to your rest. We both know, I sorely need to take my own. I have no wish to embarrass you in public again.” He turned away before she could reach out to him, and he was already at the door when she finally forced out her words.
“Myles, you didn’t—”
“Goodnight, my lady.” He opened the door and left, closing it behind him with quiet finality.
Pippa started across the room, thinking that she must speak to him to clarify things. But she stopped when she reached the door and leaned against it heavily. What could she say to him?