Page 43 of The Work of Art

Captain Heywood’s fingers immediately closed protectively around hers. “What sorts of things?”

She swallowed. “As you see, I’ve come to you with practically nothing except for myself and my dogs. The little I managed to pack won’t get me through more than a day or two. I’d hoped to send for the rest of my belongings once we arrive in Somersetshire, but now I think of it, I’m not sure Mrs. Vale will be in any mood to oblige me.”

“I’ve arranged for all of your things to come with us when we leave London. You needn’t waste a moment of worry over it.”

“Have you? But how?” A jolt of alarm went through her. “Surely you don’t mean us to go to my uncle’s house on our way out of London? I don’t think it advisable. They’ll all be furious, and there’s certain to be an awful scene.”

“Don’t make yourself uneasy. You’ll never have to see your uncle again, I assure you. My solicitor will deal with him. The servants will tend to the packing of your things and your trunks won’t be long behind us on the baggage coach. At the very most, you’ll be without them for one night.”

Philly exhaled an unsteady breath. “Thank you, Arthur. I believe you’ve thought of everything.”

Captain Heywood went very still. There was an oddly arrested expression on his face. “That’s the first time you’ve ever called me Arthur.”

“I suppose it is. But if we’re to be married today, I think it must be permissible.”

“It’s more than permissible. In fact, I like it very well.” He paused. “Shall I call you Phyllida from now on?”

“If you prefer it, but I’d much rather you call me Philly.”

“Philly?”

“No one ever called me Phyllida until I came to London.” She raised her eyes to his in guarded expectation. “To my real family I’ve only ever been Philly.”

He met her gaze, seeming to immediately comprehend the significance of what she was telling him. “Then you shall be Philly to me, as well.” His thumb moved across her hand. “Unless we’re being very formal, in which case I’ll be obliged to call you Mrs. Heywood.”

“Mrs. Heywood,” Philly repeated. “She sounds like another person, and yet in less than an hour, I shall be her.”

“Yes,” he vowed. “You most definitely shall be.”

Upon arrival at the Earl of Gordon’s townhouse, Philly asked for a few minutes to repair her hair and dress. With the assistance of a very competent housemaid, she removed her spencer robe, revealing the same sprigged muslin gown she’d often worn to church on Sundays in Fox Cross. It wasn’t as dazzling as some of her newer London-made clothes, but it was her own best gown and she was really quite pleased with the elegant simplicity of it. The maid helped to arrange her hair, and after re-pinning it, tucked a small spray of white flowers into her tresses. Philly didn’t think she could have looked any better.

When she came back downstairs, Arthur and the vicar were waiting for her in the lavishly appointed drawing room. Several vases of flowers had been placed throughout for the occasion, and William, the earl’s butler, Underhill, and two of the housemaids were in attendance. It all felt very much like a real wedding ought, and as Philly took her place at Arthur’s side and the vicar began to read out the ceremony from the Book of Common Prayer, she found it harder and harder to accept that theirs was to be a marriage in name only.

When Arthur took her bare hand in his for the first time, Philly’s heart beat so heavily that she was sure he must have heard it. And when he put the sparkling ruby wedding ring on her finger, her breath caught in her throat.

If Arthur was similarly affected, he didn’t show it. He evinced a quiet satisfaction at Philly’s response to her wedding band, but otherwise seemed intent on getting the business of the marriage over and done with. On one occasion, Philly thought his hand might have trembled as it held hers. She was sure she must be mistaken. Arthur had fought in the Peninsula. A wedding ceremony was hardly going to shake his nerves.

For Philly, however, every single word that was read by the vicar excited a new depth of feeling. By the time the ceremony was complete, she was so overcome with emotion that she could say precious little to anyone. They were congratulated by all of the servants, enthusiastically by William (who was the first to call her Mrs. Heywood), and more sedately by Underhill and the rest of the staff. They partook of a small wedding breakfast, which neither had much of an appetite for. And then, before Philly knew it, the same maid who had helped her to dress for the wedding was assisting her back into her spencer robe—which was to serve in lieu of a carriage gown—and she and Arthur were ensconced in his luxurious travelling coach and on their way out of London.

It was a cold morning, and Philly kept her gloves on against the chill but discarded her hat as soon as they climbed into the coach. It now lay on the seat beside her, along with Fox and Dash. Jasper was resting next to Arthur, his wet nose nestled between his two front paws, and Basil had managed to curl his large body comfortably on the floor.

Philly had a copy of The Odyssey she’d borrowed from the earl’s library spread out over her lap. The leather-bound volume was filled with beautiful etchings. She spent the first hour of their journey poring over them as the coach traveled at a rapid clip down the Bath Road. Whenever she glanced up from her reading, Arthur was still gazing out the window, deeply immersed in some melancholy thought of his own.

“Do you dislike talking during a long journey?” she asked.

Arthur turned to look at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’ll be quite happy to continue with my book if you like it to be quiet, but if not, then I thought that perhaps we might talk.”

“If it pleases you. What would you like to talk about?”

Philly stroked Fox’s head with her gloved hand. “I have some questions about my role in your household.”

“Your role?” His brow creased. “You’re my wife, of course.”

“Yes, quite, but you said it was to be a marriage in name only. That you were offering me your name and nothing more. I wouldn’t like to presume anything.”

“What would you be presuming?”