Marina was disoriented when she woke up in someone else's room, but she quickly remembered that it was Philip's. She snuggled in to Celeste, who was still sleeping - miracle of miracles - and allowed herself to doze for a little longer.
When next she woke she got Celeste up out of bed and returned to her own room after making up Philip's bed and removing any evidence that she had spent the night there. "He could be home any minute now, so we'd best not be caught sleeping in his bed!" she teased Celeste.
Philip returned from London that afternoon, with news of the Patterson children's successful rescue. "They found Mr. Patterson in Bromley with the children and brought them back to London."
"I hope the judge keeps this behavior in mind when making his ruling," Marina commented.
Philip was bouncing Celeste on his knee, and didn't look away from her as he responded, "He will certainly be reminded of this by Mrs. Patterson's legal counsel. What can the man have been thinking?"
Marina watched them together for a minute, frowning. She wondered, if she tried to leave Philip and take Celeste away with her, would he let her go? He seemed so attached to Celeste – wouldn't he try to fight for her custody? If it did come to that, he was certain to win; a lawyer facing off against a young mother of dubious character. Yet it was he who kept bringing up the fact that this wasn't really Marina's home, that she and Celeste would be leaving one day. Sometimes she wanted to shake him and ask him what he really wanted, but she was afraid of what his answer might be.
She got up late that night to pee, and saw the light coming from under Philip's door again. This night, she went to the door and knocked. There was no response for a long while, so she knocked again, and heard a muffled reply.
"May I come in?" she asked.
He was quiet again, and she thought he might just ignore her, but he finally answered, "Yes."
She cracked the door open and looked in, moving slowly to put him at his ease. He was at his desk, clearly in the middle of writing, but had turned in his seat to look at her, and had started to stand when she came in. She waved a hand for him to stay seated.
"Are you still working?" she asked.
He looked down at his work, and then back at her. "Ah, yes… I have to re-write some documents. A minor mistake, but one that had best not be filed to the courts," he chuckled a little at his own joke, but she didn't really see the humor. She did see that he had a lot of writing ahead of him.
"Can I help?"
He had already bent back to his work, but he looked up at that, frowning at her. "Can you help…?"
She nodded. "My mother taught me to write. I have very neat handwriting – as good as my needlepoint." 'Not that anyone ever pointed out my handwriting when I was being sold off to a husband,' she thought wryly.
He nodded slowly. "Yes… perhaps… Yes. Alright. Here, may you write a sample on this piece, just copy the first few sentences here, so that I may see?"
She took the writing sample and a pen and started to copy down what was written. He returned to his own work while she completed her writing sample. It had been some time since she had written anything more than the sums in her bank book, so she took her time to write as neatly as possible before showing him her work. He took it and looked it over, nodding in satisfaction.
"That's Mr. Locke's handwriting though, isn't it?" she asked.
He blinked up at her. "You recognize that?" She nodded. "Yes, it is his. Truthfully, it's best that he is retiring soon; he is making more and more mistakes of this type. I'm not sure if his mind is weakening, or he is simply no longer interested in the work, but I can't have our clients receiving documents with incorrect wording."
"I see. So is that what's been keeping you up all these nights? Fixing Mr. Locke's mistakes?" Marina asked, feeling annoyed at Mr. Locke.
"Partly. Mostly I have been working long hours to keep up with my work here in Hampstead. Mrs. Patterson's case takes up a lot of my time, but I still have paying work to complete."
"Hm. Well, what do you think of my writing? Do you want my help?"
He looked at all the work he had on his desk and gathered his thoughts. Marina could see him warring between not wanting to ask for her help, and wanting to get the work done and go to sleep. The need for sleep won in the end. "Yes, if you don't mind. If you could just rewrite this document here, but with the added changes there, that would be immensely helpful."
"Certainly." There was no other writing surface in the room, so Marina cleared herself a space on his desk and fetched the reading chair from across the room. Philip mostly ignored her as she worked, tidily writing up the document. She enjoyed doing the work, enjoyed seeing her own neat writing fill the page, and imagining that what she had written would be of use to someone. It was calming, sitting quietly next to Philip, and she was almost sorry when she finished the work.
She handed it to Philip for inspection, and he nodded. "Thank you – that is very helpful."
She got to her feet and stretched, yawning. "I'll turn in for the night. Don't stay up too late," she told him. He just nodded and kept writing, barely acknowledging her presence. She shrugged and returned to her room. Her hand was cramping a little, but she was content as she lay down to sleep, and the light in Philip's room went out soon after.
Celeste woke early the next morning, and when Marina grudgingly went downstairs for breakfast she found Philip still having his breakfast.
"Thank you again for your help last night," he said.
"You're welcome." Marina blearily poured herself a cup of tea. She had never been a morning person.
"Would you be open to doing more such work?" he asked. "With Mr. Locke retiring soon, I will have more on my plate, and if you wouldn't mind helping with the writing up of documents, I would greatly appreciate it. I would compensate you for your time accordingly."
Marina grinned at him. "Ah, I see. Good to know you didn't marry me just to have an unpaid laborer around."
Philip smiled back. "No. As you know, I married you for your teeth." Marina nearly snorted her tea on herself, unprepared for his humor this early in the morning. He handed her an envelope. "This was delivered for you this morning."
She coughed, and handed Celeste into his arms so she could open the letter without interference. It was an invitation to dinner at the Tuttles later that week. "Would you like to go?" she asked him. "They say it will only be a small, informal gathering."
He grimaced and shook his head. "No, I'll stay home with Celeste. I don't trust the Tuttles' idea of "small and informal"."
He had been right to doubt the Tuttles.
Marina arrived at their house for dinner to find it was bedecked in finery, and there was a sizable crowd gathered for dinner. She looked down at her muddy boots – she hadn't dressed up, expecting a small gathering – and felt a little embarrassed.
"Oh my dear, what a mess! It is simply dreadful outside these days is it not?" Mrs. Tuttle fussed over her. Marina had enjoyed the walk over – the air was cool and dewy, and though spring rains had brought mud, they also brought fresh greenery.
"Let me fetch you a pair of slippers my dear," Mrs. Tuttle said, waving to her servant girl to get the shoes. "They may be a little big, but we're only sitting for dinner, so it shouldn't be a problem."
The slippers fit almost perfectly, but Marina was sitting at the dinner table soon after she put them on anyway. She was seated between Ms. Hurst and Mr. Friesen. Mr. Friesen was very involved in discussing the ridiculous demands of his tenant farmers with his neighbor Mr. Jones, so Marina and Ms. Hurst spent most of the dinner conversing with each other. Mr. Braithewite was seated across the table from them, several seats down, but Ms. Braithewite was not in attendance.
"She has had a terrible headache for the past couple of days," Ms. Hurst told her, being a more frequent companion of Ms. Braithewite. They had been friends since childhood, though not on even footing. Ms. Hurst's family was nobility, in the distant past, but they had no fortune to their name anymore, and so she had always been a sort of charity case. Marina found her to be a perfectly amiable young woman, though perhaps not the sharpest wit.
"Look at those two beauties there, being quite ignored by their neighbor!" Mr. Braithewite observed of Marina and Ms. Hurst. "I say, Mr. Friesen, have you no sense of honor?"
"I doubt either of the young ladies is pining away for want of my attention," the elderly Mr. Friesen replied sourly.
"No, indeed. I suppose they are happy to share secrets with each other and whisper away in their corner of the room," Mr. Braithewite rejoined, laughing at the older man's bitterness.
Marina grinned at him, but she had no desire to involve herself in a shouting match across the large table, so she turned back to her meal and her closer companion.
Ms. Hurst sighed deeply, once Mr. Braithewite returned his attention to his own neighbor. "May I tell you a secret, in fact?" she asked Marina.
"Certainly, though this is perhaps not the most secluded of places to be telling secrets."
"It's alright. No one bothers to listen to the chatter of young women, no matter where they are," Ms. Hurst said.
Marina took her hand in solidarity. "You may be right, but more so the fools they. Very well; what is this secret of yours?"
"I am deeply in love with Mr. Braithewite."
"Truly?" Marina whispered.
"Truly. I have loved him since I first knew what love is, though I know he shall never look twice at me," she said sadly, "He will marry a woman with a title, or with a proper dowry. I am only the poor little friend of his sister." She smiled at Marina suddenly, and said, "It is only my first love, and it is good to have a hopeless first love don't you think? One would not wish to be practical in love from the beginning."
Marina laughed, impressed with Ms. Hurst's logic. She hadn't expected it of the gullible, flighty little woman. "Yes, I think you are right. Fall in love hopelessly, romantically, and then find a sensible man to settle down with." She herself had done just that, though not by any design of her own.
Ms. Hurst nodded, wine making her a little too emphatic. "Precisely." She leaned in close to Marina and whispered, "And if your husband is a troll, you can always seek your pleasures elsewhere. I hear it is done all the time in London."
Marina shook her head and pushed the other girl away. "I don't know about that… I doubt it is quite the thing in Hampstead."
Ms. Hurst pouted. "No, not at all." She sighed. "I hope Mama will take me to London for a Season at least, that I might have a chance to get out of this town."
Marina patted her hand. "Don't put all your hopes on London. It isn't as wonderful as it seems."
It was late when they were all leaving the Tuttle's, and Mr. Braithewite offered to take Marina home. "Thank you Mr. Braithewite. Might you also bring Ms. Hurst home?" When Ms. Hurst squeezed her elbow alarmingly she added, "I shall be your chaperone, and make sure nothing untoward happens."
Mr. Braithewite laughed and nodded. "Yes, indeed. You must restrain me madam."
They climbed up into his carriage, Ms. Hurst and Marina facing Mr. Braithewite, and rode off. They went first to Ms. Hurst's home, and she was too embarrassed to say much on the way, so Marina and Mr. Braithewite kept up a polite patter about the pleasures of the evening.
Mr. Braithewite handed Ms. Hurst down and brought her to her door. While they were gone, Marina considered whether she might just get down and walk home from there – it wasn't far to her house, and the walk would help settle her a little. The Tuttle's servant had been generous with the wine, and she was feeling a little woozy. In the end, she was too comfortable and languid to leave the soft bench in the carriage just yet.
"There now, the young lady is safely returned to her keepers," Mr. Braithewite said, returning to the cabin and closing the door. He knocked once on the ceiling and the carriage resumed its course. "Now, it is only the feral young man and the chaperone."
Marina laughed. She was growing used to her position as matron, and even enjoyed it at times. "You are hardly feral," she said, gesturing about her to his rich trappings.
"And you are hardly a chaperone," he said, and put a hand on her thigh.
She laughed it off, brushed his hand off her leg and said, "You are drunk Mr. Braithewite."
"I am," he agreed. "I am drunk on you." He leaned across the cabin and kissed her.
She pushed him back and stared at him, shocked. "What are you doing?"
"What we have both been wishing to do since we first met."
She shook her head vehemently. "I'm married!"
"You aren't happily married," he scoffed. "There's nothing between you and Philip, not like what we have."
He leaned forward again to kiss her and she dodged by opening the door and rolling out of the carriage, pulling her limbs in to keep from twisting anything in the fall. She hit the ground hard, and rolled, glad now for all the times she had fallen from their horse as a young woman. The carriage ground to a halt and Mr. Braithewite stared at her from the open door.
She got to her feet and did her best to look haughty. "Whatever you may have imagined, there is nothing between us, Mr. Braithewite. Good night." She started walking back towards her house, only now realizing that after they had left Ms. Hurst they had headed in the opposite direction from her home. Her drunken haze was quickly turning into cold, sober rage.
"Don't be ridiculous!" Mr. Braithewite called after her. "Get back in the carriage!"
She shook her head and kept walking. He tapped the carriage roof again and the driver pulled the horses up alongside her.
"Let me take you home," he said.
"I'm not going anywhere with you again," Marina said firmly. She looked up at the driver, who was steadfastly avoiding looking at her. When she failed to catch his gaze she growled and shook her head and increased her pace.
"What was I supposed to think, with the way you threw yourself at me?" Mr. Braithewite snapped from inside the carriage.
"The way I – you absolute asshole! Are you so self-obsessed you think any woman that talks to you wants to sleep with you?!" Marina yelled at him. She growled, unable to coherently explain all that was wrong with this situation. She waved her hand at the driver, and he finally looked at her. "Get him out of here," she told him, and when he hesitated she added, "Please!" and the man finally smiled at her, sharing with her a moment of disdain for the man in the carriage, and he slapped the reins against the horses backs, pushing them into a trot.
"You dirty harlot!" Mr. Braithewite hissed at her as his carriage passed her and went on into the night.
"I'm a harlot because I refuse to sleep with you?" she grumbled under her breath as she watched him leave, relief mixing with anger in her gut. The nerve of the man! Just because she was nice to him, because she joked with him – the way she might joke with anyone with wit! And to call her names because he had projected something onto her that she wanted no part in. And now, because of his actions, she likely would be labeled a tart by the town. It would be her good name that was smeared. Had other people seen her behavior towards him in the same light? Did they think she was throwing herself at him?
She entered the garden through the back lane and threw herself down on the bench, hot tears running down her cheeks. She was just so angry, so frustrated, so disappointed. She thought she was making friends; she had really thought she could do that. Was that stupid of her? Why did he have to ruin it for her like this?
She let out a low groan of frustration, trying to push out this horrible feeling, and wiped the tears from her cheeks. There was a light on in the parlor – Philip must be sitting up with Celeste still. She took a deep breath to steel herself, and splashed her face with cold water from the well. Then she straightened her shoulders and went inside.
She considered sneaking by Philip and going up to bed without facing him, but when she peeked around the corner and saw him and Celeste cuddled on the couch, Philip reading softly to the little girl, all she wanted suddenly was to hold Celeste.
Philip heard her come in, and felt around for a book mark to keep his spot. "Ah, you've returned. Did you enjoy your – oh! Are you alright?" He stood up off the couch when he saw the state of her.
Marina nodded and held out her arms to him. "Let me hold her," she said, and he handed Celeste into her arms. Marina pulled her close and kissed the top of her head, taking a deep breath of her comforting baby scent. She felt steadied by the presence of her child. Why was she so worried about stupid Mr. Braithewite and all the other village idiots, when the only person who really mattered to her was right here?
"Can I do anything for you?" Philip asked, fidgeting anxiously. Marina sighed and wiped her cheeks again, as tired tears spilled from her eyes. His own eyes widened when he noticed her hands. "Oh, that's blood! Let me get some bandages. What happened?" he asked, and headed for the kitchen, and then turned back, hesitant. "Unless – you don't want to tell me. I don't… I'll get the bandages." He hurried off to the kitchen and Marina felt another wave of sadness wash over her, watching him go. Why was he so kind, so understanding all the time? He made her forget how cruel the world really was. He had made her think she was safe.