Chapter 4
James escorted her home after she woke, and had a long, private talk with her father. She rather resented the exclusion, even if it was traditional.
The wedding, however, was a less-than-traditional affair, with few guests and no fancy new dress for the bride. Not that she'd ever desired all the normal trappings, but it felt a bit incongruous to stand before the vicar in a years-old Sunday dress and take the vows that would change her life forever.
But her friends were there and that made her feel a little better. Nikola promised to thrash James within an inch of his life if he ever made her unhappy. Nigel hugged her and repeated again and again his assurances that it would all work out for the best. Both were, of course, sad to see her leaving town so quickly. They promised to write faithfully and exacted the same promise from her, and assured her that they would visit when they could.
And then it was onto the train with James, her things to be sent after.
It lacked the pomp and festivities that had been planned for her wedding with John, and she was grateful for that fact. James was as subdued as she when they boarded their train, and they rode in silence for most of the journey. When they did talk, it was about nothing of import: the weather, or the scenery outside, or the quality of the railroad food. Certainly not a traditional newly-wed couple on their hopeful way to a blissful new life together.
"We'll be there soon," James told her finally, breaking what had to have been hours of silence.
"Good," she answered, resting her cheek against the cold glass of the window and staring out at the darkness. "The motion of the train is making me feel quite ill."
"Shall I see if the porter can find you some toast? Might help a bit to have something in your stomach?" he offered, moving to sit next to her and squeezing her hand.
"I doubt I could keep it down," she admitted, shaking her head faintly and returning his pressure to her fingers with a light squeeze of her own. "Thank you."
"We'll be at my estate before long. You can have some mint tea and broth when we get there."
"You don't have to dote. In fact, please don't," she sighed. "I'm neither ill nor fragile."
"You are a bit ill," he countered, "if only for the moment. And I don't see it as doting to offer relief to a friend. You've never objected to my solicitude in the past."
"Well, it's a bit different now, isn't it?" she sighed, staring at him. "Can't you see that, James?"
"All I see is Helen Magnus being her usual, stubborn self," he answered with a faint smile, squeezing her hand again. "I will promise not to dote excessive but, in return, you must allow me to show you the same level of care and concern I've always displayed in the past. Have we a deal?"
"I suppose," she answered, smiling because that friendly, winning look of his always made her do so.
If he could still give her that devil-be-damned grin, not too much could have changed between them. And it was, somehow, a relief to find that they would still be friends despite all this.
"Our housekeeper is a big believer in the healing power of plants. Be prepared to be plied with all manner of herbal concoctions in the coming months. Mint tea will just be the start," he 'warned' her, chuckling. "The things she made me drink as a little boy..."
"Certain herbs can be very efficacious," she pointed out, biting her lip. "Your old housekeeper may be on to something, James."
"I wouldn't give Mrs. Baines too many points for wisdom. She also puts out a saucer of milk every night for the fairies."
"Dear Lord!" she laughed, shaking her head. "James, what are you getting me into?"
"She's a sweet old woman. She'll take excellent care of you. Or perhaps you'll consider it intolerable doting?"
"I won't mind it so much from a sweet old woman," she assured him.
"Oh, so it's only me you find it offensive from? Shall I be a proper husband instead, neglecting you at every turn instead, and ignoring you whenever you enter the room?"
"Shut up, you," she ordered, smiling and closing her eyes. "I don't want to be happy today."
"You'll have to be happy again at some point," he noted gently, fingers absently stroking against the back of her hand. "It's not good for the baby for you to be constantly miserable."
"Can you really blame me for being so?" she snapped, opening her eyes and moving to the opposite seat, pulling her hand free of his. "After everything I've been through, all the wrong I've done? You think I don't deserve a bit of misery?"
"Helen, you can't keep blaming yourself for John's crimes!" he protested, shaking his head. "None of us could have foreseen what would happen. You're not to blame."
"I played God, James, and I've been justly punished. It would be wrong of me to try to forget."
"No one is asking you to forget, but you can't always live in the past, either. If you can't live for yourself yet, can you at least live for your child? I had a mother who never could bring herself to smile. Give your child something better than I had?"
"John's mother is in an asylum," she told him abruptly. "Melancholia."
"I know. I've met her a few times. She's a lovely woman. It's a real shame."
"He always talked about how hard it was, seeing her so sad all the time."
"No one wants to see the mother they love so unhappy," James murmured, reaching for her hands again.
She swallowed hard, letting him take them. "Then I'll do my best to be happy. But it won't be easy."
"No, of course not," he whispered, smiling weakly at her. "But, if there's ever anything I can do to help..."
"Bless you, James," she sighed, reaching up to wipe away the tears that were threatening to spill over.
"I know it won't be easy for you. Just... please... know that I'll do all in my power to help you both have a normal life. A life free of that shadow."
"We'll never be free of the shadow of what's happened," she told him simply, shrugging. "But maybe we can still have a good life. I don't know. But I... I hope so, James. For the child's sake more than our own."
"We may well be past having the right to ask anything for ourselves," he admitted quietly, clearing his throat. "But, for the sake of the child, it would be best if we had a reasonably happy existence."
"For the child," she agreed quietly, biting her lip and staring out the window again. "But what will happen if he comes for us?"
James cleared his throat at that, colouring a little before going pale. Then he shook himself and adopted a look of firm resolution that she had never seen on his face before. "If he comes looking for us, I'll deal with him. As necessary." Expression softening, he lifted a hand to gently cup her cheek. "Besides, he may not even have survived your last encounter. As terrible as it is to say, we must hope for that outcome."
Her already-roiling stomach clenched painfully at those words, and she whispered, "I've never shot a man before, James. There's no way I can be sure my aim was true."
"I find myself vacillating between hope that you killed him and hope that you did not. But false hope will get us nowhere. John hasn't been back to London since the incident. Even if he survived, he may never return. He must realize that his life would be in danger if he were to come looking for any member of the Five. That will be a powerful incentive for him to make a new life elsewhere. We will likely never see him again."
She nodded weakly at his words, rubbing her suddenly-aching head. "I just wish I knew whether he was alive or not."
"It's best not to think about it, Helen. Please, for the baby's sake, try not to trouble yourself with things you can't change."
"For the child," she repeated, shaking her head and pinching the bridge of her nose. "Hell, aren't we there yet?" she snapped.
"Helen!" he protested, staring at her use of such language.
"This train car is making me so claustrophobic! I can't stand it, James!"
"We'll arrive in a few minutes. Then we'll have a nice, moonlit drive to the house. You'll be able to breathe again," he promised.
"I haven't been able to breathe properly in weeks," she admitted.
"I'm not surprised. There's been so much weighing on you. But I hope, now... maybe there's one less thing to worry about?"
He was wearing that hopeful look from the other day, when they'd discussed the idea of marriage. She couldn't recall having seen him so optimistic since the killings started, and it was really something of a relief. Sighing softly, she reached for his hand, sliding her fingers through his again. They were alone in the compartment, so there was no one to be scandalized by the display. Not that she would have let that stop her, probably. After all, she was Mrs. Watson now. She could hold hands with him any time she pleased.
And he was right. There was one less thing to worry about now.
Feeling less claustrophobic, she spent the rest of the ride in almost-comfortable silence, lightly holding hands with her new husband. It felt different than holding hands with John had, but she couldn't bring herself to mind that. They would probably never have what she and John had but, as her father had pointed out again and again, that didn't mean they couldn't have a happy marriage, and a happy life together.
It proved to be a beautiful night out when they finally stepped off the train, and someone from the estate had sent them an open coach instead of a covered carriage. He'd been right about what a lovely effect it was, riding through the country air on a moonlit night in an open vehicle. Part of her hoped that they could do it again soon. It was just lovely, and his quiet company somehow made it even better. Somehow, in this moment, she no longer dreaded seeing her new home quite so much...