Lady in Rags

Chapter Nine: In the Bones

He smiled, and it broke out into a laugh. "Perhaps, you shouldn't have tried. I would have accepted an enigma."

She laughed helplessly, and shook her head. "I'm not stupid."

"I know." The smile was still on his face, even as he said, "But I'm afraid I can't much teach you happiness either. I don't know it myself. I did once, and then I lost it... I don't think I will ever find it again. It's gone. So there. You know what's in my bones, and I know what's in yours. We're a matching pair of deficient human souls. We're perfect for each other."

Some of the old irony had returned to his tone. Verity had not heard him speak like that since the night she had first met him. All through their courtship period at her grandmother's house, he had treated her with a distant, and well-mannered politeness. Now, here was a difference: a gentle, mocking irony. But was it a step closer to him, or a step further away?

She shyly drew her gaze back to the window, fearing the former. After a long moment of silence, she heard the rustle of paper: he had taken up his book again, and was trying to find his place.

It wasn't until the sky was very dark that they rolled into Blackpool, streets glowing golden where the light spilled out from doorways and windows. Verity had never before been so far away from home, and at an ordinary time, might have found it fascinating to see the tall, leering houses and bustling streets. But after the long journey, and the emotional battering of the day, she had no energy left to be fascinated by anything or anyone. The sailors making their way from pub doors and the women who trotted on their arms only made her feel a vague disgust at humanity.

They were staying at a hotel near the wharfs. Armiger's coachman deposited them in the yard, and hoisted the bags to the pavement for them. Two large trunks had been sent ahead to the ship already, and only their overnight cases were coming with them now. Verity was still in her wedding dress and slippers. She picked her skirts up to avoid dirtying them in the mud, and Armiger took the bags after flipping a coin to his coachman.

"Take a few days' holiday, if you like," he said easily. "I won't need you until we're back, and Martins said he can handle the stables by himself for a while."

"Thank you, Sir." The coachman bowed to them both. "All the best on your honeymoon."

They went inside the inn. Verity's stomach tingled. Their honeymoon.

After a talk with the innkeeper, a boy appeared to take their bags, and they were taken to a quiet, solitary dining room away from the main hall of the hotel, choked with guests this time of night, and loud with chatter. It might have been intimate, with the softly closed curtains and dimly lit candles, and the table set just for two, but their conversation was not. Armiger seemed tired too. He remarked dully that the wine was not very good, before he'd even drunk it. But perhaps men just knew those things. And Verity made the attempt to comment on the olive wall paper, and he agreed it was rather nice, which it wasn't really.

They did not finish their lavish meal, which had been prepared in advance by the hotel. They left the carcass of the quails, and most of the salad, and the sweets and lamb almost untouched. Armiger drank only a few sips of wine. Nervously, Verity gulped down a glass, only for it to settle uneasily in her stomach, as she was not used to drinking.

And then they went to their room.

Verity stopped still as she entered it, and Armiger ran into her.

"Is there something wrong?" the manageress asked anxiously. She was already nervous about their unfinished meal downstairs, despite Armiger's protestations that it was all lovely.