Mrs. Barrington’s voice in Beth’s head had grown fainter in the last days, and Beth heard it only weakly now. You ‘vent well above yourself, my gel. See that you don’t make a meal of it.
She wondered what Thomas would have said, and found his voice completely gone. Tears blurred the ponderous station that slid past the windows as the train began to move.
Ian hadn’t even bothered to wonder whether Curry made it aboard before they went. Beth compared this leaving to her own departure from Victoria Station: Mrs. Barrington’s wheezing, elderly butler trying to help but dropping everything he picked up, Katie convinced their luggage would be stolen and never seen again, and the lady’s maid Beth had hired having hysterics about “foreign parts” and running off at the last minute.
Of course, Curry had no such problems. He appeared calmly at the door of their compartment as they glided through Paris to tell them he’d ordered tea and squared the tickets, and asked if they wanted anything else. Very efficient, very calm, as though his master hadn’t just rushed into a marriage and a journey of hundreds of miles on top of it. Beth also discovered, as they left Paris behind and chugged across rain-soaked France, how restless Ian could be. After only half an hour in their private compartment, Ian left to roam the train, walking up and down, up and down. When they reached Calais and boarded the boat for England, he paced the deck above while Beth slept alone in their private cabin.
Finally, during the journey from Dover to Victoria Station, Beth stuck out her foot when Ian again rose to leave the compartment.
“Is anything the matter?” she asked. “Why don’t you want to sit?”
“I don’t like to be confined.” Ian opened the door to the corridor as he spoke, fine beads of sweat on his upper lip. “You don’t mind carriages.”
“I can make carriages stop whenever I like. I can’t step off a train or boat whenever I please.”
“True.” She touched her lip. “Perhaps we can find something to take your mind from it.”
Ian abruptly closed the door. “I also leave because keeping my hands off you is a strain.”
“We’ll be on the train for a few more hours,” Beth continued.
“And I’m certain Curry will ensure we’re not disturbed.” Ian pulled down the curtains and turned to her. “What did you have in mind?”
Beth hadn’t thought they could do very much in a small railway carriage, but Ian proved to be quite resourceful. She found herself half-undressed with her legs wrapped around him as he knelt in front of her. In that position they were face-to-face, and Beth studied his eyes, hoping he’d look at her fully again. But this time, when climax hit him, Ian closed his eyes and turned his head.
Only a few minutes later, Beth was dressed again and sitting breathlessly on the seat while Ian went out to pace the train.
When Beth had shared a bed with Thomas, they’d been less exuberant and more conventional, but at the end, there had been quiet kisses and whispered I love you’s. Now Ian wandered the train, and Beth sat alone, watching the green countryside of England rush by. She heard the echo of
Ian’s matter-of-fact statement from weeks ago: I wouldn’t expect love from you. I can’t love you back.
The luggage made it to the station intact, but when they entered an elegant coach outside—hired by Curry—it took them toward the Strand instead of Euston Station. “Are we stopping in London?” Beth asked in surprise. Ian answered with a brief nod. Beth peered through the window at gloomy, rainy London, which looked grimier and duller now that she’d seen the wide boulevards and parks of Paris. “Is your house near here?”
“My London household was packed and sent to Scotland while I was in France.”
“Where will we stay, then?”
“We are going to visit a dealer.”
Enlightenment came when Ian led her into a narrow shop in the Strand filled floor-to-ceiling with Oriental curiosities. “Oh, you’re buying more Ming pottery,” she said. “A vase?”
“Bowl. I know nothing about Ming vases.”
“Aren’t they much the same?”
His look told her she’d lost her mind, so Beth closed her mouth and fell silent.
The dealer, a portly man with dull yellow hair and a limp mustache, tried to interest Ian in a vase that was ten times the price of the small, rather chipped bowl Ian asked to see, but Ian ignored his maneuverings.
Beth watched in fascination as Ian held the bowl between his fingertips and examined it in minute detail. He missed nothing, not a crack or anomaly. He smelled it, he touched his tongue to it, he closed his eyes and rested the bowl against his cheek.
“Six hundred guineas,” he said.
The burly dealer looked surprised. “Good lord, man, you’ll ruin yourself. I was going to ask three hundred, I must be honest. It’s chipped.”
“It’s rare,” Ian said. “It’s worth six hundred.”
“Well.” The dealer grinned. “Six hundred it is then. I’ve done well for myself. You wouldn’t want to appraise the rest of my collection, would you?”
Ian laid the bowl reverently on the velvet bag the dealer placed on the counter. “I don’t have time. I’m taking my bride to Scotland tonight.”
“Oh.” The good-natured dealer looked at Beth with new interest. “I beg your pardon, my lady. I didn’t realize. My felicitations.” “It was all rather sudden,” Beth said faintly.
The dealer raised his brows and glanced at Ian, who had returned his broad fingertips lovingly to the bowl. “I am pleased you had time to stop and look at my offering.” “Rather lucky we found you in,” Beth said. “And the bowl still here.”
The dealer looked surprised. “Not luck, my lady. Lord Ian wired me from Paris and told me to hold it for him.” “Oh.” Beth’s face grew warm. “Yes, of course he would have.”
Beth had been with Ian constantly since their hasty marriage, except when he paced the trains and boat. The all efficient Curry must have sent the wire from some station along the way. More details Ian didn’t have to worry about. The dealer’s assistant packed the bowl under Ian’s watchful eye. Ian said that his man of business would be along with the money, and the dealer bowed. “Of course, my lord. Congratulations again. My lady.”
The assistant held the door for them, but before they could take two steps, Lyndon Mather stepped out of a carriage in front of them. The blond, handsome man stopped dead in his tracks and went a peculiar shade of green. Beth had her hand in the crook of Ian’s arm, and Ian pulled her so abruptly against him that she fell into his side. Mather glared at the box under Ian’s arm. “Damnation, man, is that my bowl?”