She woke that morning to find an envelope on the kitchen table, beside a pot of tea sitting under a dishtowel.
Curious, she opened the envelope, not even considering it might not be hers to open until the deed was already done. Inside she found a bank draft for two hundred and fifty pounds, with her father's signature guaranteeing it. She shoved it back in the envelope.
She was surprised her father had given any dowry, after his fury at her indiscretion. Still, getting herself a husband quickly had been his goal in sending her to London, and she had succeeded in that at least. She poured herself a cup of tea, staring at the envelope. "Perhaps your uncle will like me more now, now that I have brought him some small fortune," she muttered to the baby.
She spent the morning cooking and reading. She had found a neat little collection of novels in the sitting room, sandwiched between weighty law tomes and some scientific sounding titles. The one she chose to read centered around a young man in love with a mysterious woman that Marina suspected would turn out to be a ghost. She wondered if Mrs. Crane had left the books here – she found it impossible to imagine that Philip would read something as frivolous as this.
Philip walked in on her like this, seated at the kitchen table with her book, a cup of tea, and a plate of snacks in front of her. She stood up, feeling guilty, and then feeling angry with herself for feeling guilty – this was her house now, was it not? – and then she transferred that anger to Philip, for interrupting her pleasant afternoon. He made a small motion with his hand, indicating she should seat herself again, and she looked out the window, realizing it was now well into the afternoon.
"Have you finished work for the day?" she asked him.
"I have." He opened the pot she had cooking over the stove and took a deep breath.
"Did you see this?" she asked, pushing the envelope towards him.
He glanced at it and nodded. "I did." He pulled down a bowl from the shelf.
"This should help with your money troubles, at least a little."
"The money is yours, to do with as you like," he said flatly, spooning stew into his bowl.
Marina frowned. This, she had not expected. She had imagined him smiling, excitedly thanking her, or her father at least, for the money. She had thought he might put some aside, for a maid or for redecorating. But for him to say – in his infuriatingly flat tone, no less – that it was her money, after all… "What am I to do with it?"
He smiled indulgently. "Whatever you like."
Marina fought the urge to snort at his nonsense. "No, I mean – what should I do with it? I have no bank account, nor anything I can spend this sum on."
His smile vanished, replaced with a perplexed, crestfallen look. She struggled not to smirk. So he could make expressions after all. "Ah… I see." He turned and poured himself a cup of water, slowly, and then turned back to her. "Are you available tomorrow? We can go to the bank and open an account in your name."
Marina blinked at him. "Your mother said she would come by in the afternoon…"
"Then we can go first thing, when the bank opens." He took a gulp of water, smiling again. "You keep a hold of that until then," he said, indicating the envelope.
Marina found herself smiling back, at his simple pleasure at solving the issue, and that dimple on his cheek... "Shall we have dinner together tonight then?"
He nodded. "If you like. I'm afraid I'm not good company though."
"Oh, don't say that!"
He shrugged. "I'm not the only one saying so; I have been told so by family and friends."
Marina laughed. Between George and his mother, she could well imagine that Philip was the odd one out that they would tease. Her brother Edward was the one in her family who filled that role. She felt a sudden ache for her own family, thinking of their laughter. She had written to her mother, to tell her of her marriage to Philip, and that she would be moving to Hampstead, so near to their family home, but Marina had received no reply. Her father was angry – she knew as much from the furious letter she had received when Lady Whistledown had made her pregnancy a matter of public discourse – but Marina had hoped he would forgive her when he found out she would be married after all. Apparently he had calmed down enough to provide her dowry, but not enough to allow the family to communicate with her. He might do his duty by her, but he would not do her any kindness.
She asked Philip about his day, hoping to distract herself from the pain in her chest. He described some of the legal work he was doing – small things, wills and contracts and deeds, the every day machinations of the law. He went into the legality of some matters in great detail, and though he seemed excited about the legal complexities of a tenant farmer's right to crop selection, she could see why he had been told he was not good company. Perhaps if he was speaking with other lawyers they might understand and be interested, but how could he expect her to be engaged?
He seemed to realize his mistake eventually, and he cut himself off in the middle of some technical detail, saying abruptly, "So that is what I have been working on lately…" He looked down at his plate and shook his head slightly, then cleared his throat and asked awkwardly, "How was your day?"
"Oh, fine. I sat in the sun and read… I'm not really sure what I should be doing," Marina answered.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean… should I stay inside? Away from society?"
Philip frowned. "Not at all. Why should you do that?"
"Well, I am showing," Marina pointed out. Was he really so clueless about social life? "And it is somewhat larger than our week-long marriage should allow."
Philip's eyes widened. He really hadn't thought about it after all. "Ah, I see…" He frowned at the table, thinking it over. "It is an awkward position. Going out may expose you to rumors, but staying in the house all the time is hardly better… What do you want to do?"
"Well, what about you? I know you didn't choose this marriage – won't it reflect badly on you, to have a wife who is so clearly with child from before the marriage?" She suddenly thought – what if there had been another woman? She had never considered what Philip's life was before they met. What if she had torn him from his real love? She shoved this idea down – she couldn't worry about another woman now. What would be the point?
"Most of my acquaintances were surprised I managed to find a wife," he said honestly. "I'm not… popular in society in any case. It doesn't make much difference to me what they say."
Ah, the luxury of being a man, Marina thought, of being able to make your own way, without needing everyone's approval simply to exist in this world.
"You can do as you like," Philip said, and returned to his meal. Marina stared at the top of his head, feeling anger blooming in her chest. How could he care so little? How could he be so obvious in his indifference? She knew he hadn't chosen to marry her, but they still had to spend the rest of their lives together – couldn't he at least pretend to care? She regretted any resemblance she had seen between him and his brother. George could never have been so cold.
She took three deep breaths through her nose to steady herself before speaking. "I shall think of it," she said, and pushed her own plate away. "I'm quite tired actually. I'm going to lay down." She got up and went upstairs, Philip rising and stiffly wishing her a good evening as she left.
She resisted stomping up the stairs, tempting as it was, and went into her room and stood in front of the adjoining door with the key in her hand. She reached out and touched the handle, thinking to go into his room, throw his pillows on the floor, perhaps knock some things over. She was petty when she got angry – it had always made George laugh. Once he had made her so mad – why she had been mad, she could no longer remember – that she had thrown a chair at him, and once he had caught it and set it safely down he had laughed so hard he'd collapsed into the same chair, and pulled her down on top of him…
She turned the key in the lock, contenting herself with the click of the bolt sliding into place.
She slumped on to her bed, sulking. "I hope your uncle warms to you at least," she muttered, "or he will make a terrible father." She remembered Philip asking her if she wanted him to pretend to be her child's father and she smirked. "Well, he need never be your father. He could never be your father. Your father was kind and brave and funny and loving, and he loved me more than anything in the world. He loved you the same. He loved…"