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“Do you read books?” she asked, trying to distract herself.

Thorne gave a rueful grin. “Not much,” he replied. “Mostly newspapers and pamphlets these days. I used to read more when I was young. There was a lot of time on long voyages. Most of the men filled it with ruinous pastimes like gambling and drinking. I read novels at first, like Robinson Crusoe. When the captain took me under his wing, I got ambitious and turned to more serious topics like navigating. I have jumped from topic to topic over the years, reading what I thought relevant for my business but probably not expanding my mind much. I am a jack-of-all-trades but master of none. And you?”

Jane blushed. “I cannot claim to have expanded my mind much either. I read mostly novels from the circulating library. Lizzy is the bluestocking. She read many of the books in my father’s library.”

“It is a pity I did not meet him,” remarked Thorne politely, but he was quite glad he had not. Thorne could not think that Mr Bennet—as an Oxford graduate and squire—would have approved of him as a husband.

He drew Jane’s gloved hand to his lips and kissed it, thanking the Lord for providence. “I have booked separate rooms for us tonight, my dear. My valet and your new maid will be more comfortable that way. I’ve asked Kimble to arrange for trundle beds to be set up in our respective rooms for them.”

Jane silently breathed a sigh of relief. They talked more comfortably of her life at Longbourn before returning to the inn for dinner.

In the morning, they were off early, for though they had the whole day at their disposal, Thorne had instructed his coachman to drive at a slightly easier pace than he was accustomed to on these long trips. When they set out from Marlborough after lunch, Jane fell asleep and Thorne was at last at liberty to gaze at his beautiful wife. Watching her sweet face dozing as she clung to the carriage strap set his blood afire. After leaving Reading in the morning, Thorne had nobly made a deal with himself to let Jane rest easy on her first night in his house, reasoning she would probably be tired. But as he drew closer to home, he began to doubt his ability to sleep alone. When they arrived in Bristol around seven and his carriage began to climb the hill to his house, Thorne felt such a passion arising in him like a fever that he momentarily succumbed to a headache. He knew then he could not honour his good intentions.

Thorne helped Jane down from the carriage and up the stairs, but when Mrs Bellamy opened the door as they reached the top step, he picked Jane up and carried her across the threshold. She gave a gasp as her feet lifted off the ground and clung to his neck. It took all his self-control to put his wife down on the other side as visions of him heading up the vestibule stairs with her two steps at a time flitted through his head. Instead, he allowed her to remove her bonnet and offered his arm to escort her up the stairs in a stately fashion.

Jane hesitated when they reached the room she had occupied during her visit, thinking his decoration of it surely marked it as her own, but Thorne drew her on. Trepidation filled her—either her husband expected her to occupy his chamber every night, or he intended to tumble her immediately. When he opened the door at the end of the corridor that she had assumed to be his own bedchamber, Jane found to her confusion that the blue furnishings had been transferred to this room, supplemented by a huge four-poster bed which made her quake inwardly.

“This is your room, my dear. Mine is through that door,” he said, indicating an internal door on the far side of the room with a pediment. “The master bedrooms go the full width of the house, so the light and the breeze go through. One can see the Avon through the windows on one side and the rose garden on the other. I have a private stair so that I can come and go without bothering you. Your aunt said you liked the furnishings Kimble chose for your visit, so I had the empire bed set up again in here as a sofa.” Privately he had thought it would also be useful if ever the children were ill. He remembered spending some time as a child in a truckle bed next to his parents when he had some childhood ailment. “The goods are still on trial, so please feel free to change anything or everything.”

Jane determinedly did not look at the huge four-poster bed her husband had completely failed to mention. “It is beautiful and all looks very comfortable.”

Kissing her glove once more, Thorne departed to his own room, suggesting they meet in the dining room at eight.

On the master’s request, Mrs Bellamy had prepared something light for dinner. Jane partook of a little of the few plain dishes while reminding herself to respond to her husband’s conversational gambits with something better than monosyllables. After she had finished her tea, her husband lightly stroked the back of her hand and whispered the dreaded words:

“May I come to you tonight?”

Jane gave him a sickly smile and nodded her head.

When she got up from the table unsteadily, Thorne continued to sip his wine. But after his wife had left the room, he picked up his glass and rested it on the mantelpiece before pacing up and down in an agitated manner, stopping to take a sip occasionally.

Upstairs, Jane’s new maid had laid out three nightgowns on the bed for her new mistress’s selection. After making the veil and nightgown for Mary, Jane had not even had time to put a single stitch into the gossamer fabric she had requested from her aunt to make her own nightgown. Her hasty wedding date precluded any such feats of tambour work. She had made the mistake of bemoaning the situation to Lizzy. The inevitable result had been her sister whisking her off to a modiste in Bond Street who specialised in such confections. This master seamstress occupied an upstairs shop indicated only by a discreet sign emblazoned with ‘M. Francine, luxury goods’, with a disembodied hand pointing upwards. After arriving in a wonderland of sheerest chiffon, feathers and sequins, Jane had initially paused in awe.

“How on earth did you find out about this, Lizzy?”

“How else? Hildie!”

They walked amongst calico-covered mannequins displaying transparent wonders in all colours. Some of the creations made Jane blush. “And you have purchased some of these?” asked Jane, touching the hem of a filmy garment.

“Now, Jane, what would be the point of that?” laughed Lizzy.

Jane blushed again. “I beg your pardon!” Then, recovering herself: “Are you sure they cater for respectable ladies?”

“Absolutely! The disrespectable ones are apparently asked to come in the mornings before the shop officially opens, although a few high-flyers have apparently been bold enough to walk in at other times.”

“You seem very well informed for someone who is not a customer,” mumbled Jane primly.

Lizzy’s eyes sparkled. “Hildie!” she repeated, but could say no more, for the proprietress came their way, having finished attending to the only other customer—a mysterious lady in a veil.

The modiste was immediately taken by Jane’s beauty, particularly her eyes. Fabrics and notions were presented in dizzying succession. The sisters had walked out after placing an order of three gowns with matching over-gowns: one a dazzling confection of chiffon the colour of Jane’s eyes, with iridescent bugle beads strategically placed, another of embroidered peach chiffon edged with swansdown dyed to match, and a third of ivory Chantilly lace.

When Thorne entered Jane’s bedchamber after a polite knock, he found his wife seated in front of her dressing table wearing the blue ensemble while her abigail brushed out her hair by the light of a branch of candles.

“Fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two...,” said the girl.

“That will do. Thank you, Hendy,” said Jane, seeing her husband in his shirtsleeves in the mirror and quailing inwardly.

The maid replaced the long-handled brush on the dressing table, executed a quick curtsy and effaced herself.