“Worries do—do seem to find us, don’t they?” He hadn’t tripped over his words nearly all evening. Why was he suddenly doing so again?
“Elizabeth made a try at teaching me to waltz,” Fletcher said. “I proved about as good a dancer as an old mule.”
That brought another round of laughter, followed by a few well-woven tales from Fletcher about bumbling his way through society gatherings. Through it all, Gemma kept her arm wrapped around Baz’s. He didn’t pull away, didn’t look sour about it. He certainly didn’t seem to dislike that she was snuggling up with him. They’d had a lot of nights like this during their first few months of marriage, when she’d felt at home with him and been so certain he was starting to feel for her what she was starting to feel for him.
Theirs had been an odd beginning, aye, but it weren’t a bad foundation. Maybe she ought to’ve stayed longer, given him more time to see something in their future beyond what they had.
“One of Baz’s patients brought some ginger biscuits today,” Gemma said to the others. “It’d make a nice close to our evening.”
Everyone agreed. Gemma slipped her arm free of Baz’s and hurried toward the kitchen.
Mrs. Simms was at the house still, it being a day when patients knew they could drop in even late into the evening, but she’d said she didn’t mean to leave the sitting room. So Gemma wasn’t overly concerned about crossing paths with her. Every time the two of them came face-to-face, Gemma felt full sure the nurse was itching to tell her what she thought of her, and that what she thought didn’t come anywhere near approval.
But Baz relied on Mrs. Simms. Gemma’d find a way to be in good mutton with the woman.
Gemma carefully unwrapped the paper from the gingerbiscuits and set them right-tight on a platter. Her eye caught a few currant scones on the worktable. That’d elevate the offering. Though it’d be bang-up if she brought a bit of clotted cream and jam. Adding that meant bringing a few little plates and forks. So she added those to the growing heap.
Fortunately, she’d experience and plenty hefting odd and often heavy loads. Still, she took care on her walk back toward the library, not wanting to overturn the platter.
She had not quite reached the open doorway when voices became clear from inside.
“I’ve not been able to sort out the connection between you two,” Elizabeth said. “You care about her, and the two of you are obviously fond of each other, but I don’t sense you are top-over-tail in love with her.”
Gemma paused, unsure how Baz would answer. Explaining the whys of their marriage meant revealing much of her history.
“I am very fond of her,” Baz said. “But ours isn’t the ordinary sort of marriage, certainly not the kind that is celebrated in theTimes: ‘Dr. Barnabus Milligan of Finsbury wishes to announce his nuptials to the future Mrs. Gemma Milligan of Southwark in a ceremony performed in secretive haste inside a shabby chapel in Haggerston.’”
“You must’ve been more than fond of her to’ve married her,” Fletcher said. “Or there’s bits to this you ain’t telling us.”
Those “bits” involved her family and their chosen profession—something she’d rather these newfound friends not know.
“That history is not mine to tell in its entirety,” Baz said. “But it can be summarized more or less as she was in a tough spot, and there wasn’t anyone else willing to help her.”
There wasn’t anyone else willing to help her.Those words pierced Gemma’s heart. She’d always acknowledged that Baz marrying her had been an act of heroism, but somehow hearingfrom his own lips that there’d been nothing else to the decision, no attraction or affection or tenderness, cut deeply.
“Marrying someone is taking ‘helping’ to an entirely new level,” Elizabeth said. “Her difficulties must have been enormous to take such a drastic step.”
“Believe me,” he said, “had there been a less-drastic solution, I would have taken it.”
It was the closest Gemma had ever heard Baz come to saying he regretted marrying her. She’d known he wasn’t drowning in love for her, had known the desperate nature of her circumstances had pushed the matter forward quickly. But his explanation—that he’d been helping her because no one else would—held a painful note of pity and a hint of not having had a choice.
She’d come to love him all those years ago. She had always, in her heart of hearts, believed he felt the same but was simply struggling to say so.
But he hadn’t. He’d pitied her when seeing that no one else was willing to do a blasted thing for her. He’d rescued her, but he hadn’t loved her. How easily she’d let herself believe, when his letter had arrived, that he’d had a change of heart. She was thick as Tewksbury mustard, she was.
She needed time to sort this out. But simply disappearing when they’d guests to gab with would only make things worse. She pasted a smile on her face and stepped into the room, recognizing with a drop of her heart that she’d done this before. In the last few weeks she’d lived in this house before, she’d called on every acting skill she had, every ounce of endurance, every talent for pushing away heartache and fear and worry, and had gone about each day pretending she wasn’t dying inside of a broken heart.
She very much feared Baz was about to break it again.
Chapter 6
Fletcher and Elizabeth didn’t stay too late, which was fortunate for Gemma, who was struggling to keep up her cheery facade.
“You did a fine job as hostess,” Barnabus said to her as he closed the door behind their guests. “I know you haven’t done it often.”
“I’m a quick study.”
He gave her a little smile. “Perhaps we might have others over for an evening while you’re still here.”