“I’m sure Lady Wentwhistle will be happy to oblige. I will send our acceptance to Clarice’s papa by special courier.”
“You do that,” William said, sauntering for the door. “I will contemplate my good fortune over a pint at the inn. Make my farewells to the tavern maids, so to speak.”
“Just be sober Monday morning,” Papa said. “Your mother will never let you hear the end of it otherwise.”
William bowed and withdrew, but Papa, of course, was wrong. If William was tipsy when he spoke his vows—and he would be somewhere between tipsy and roaring drunk—Papa would never hear the end of it. William would be too busy getting to know his wife better.
“So you intend to marry Ash Dorning?” Jonathan’s question was casually put, along the lines of, So I hear you’ve taken up the viola.
“I do,” Della said. “The solicitors are already at work on the settlements.”
Jonathan wandered from one piece of cutwork to another, from a childhood sketch to dried flowers in a frame. This parlor had belonged to Della’s mother, though Della considered it hers now.
“And nobody thought to consult me regarding the settlements?” Jonathan pretended to study a poem an eight-year-old Della had written for her mama, something about a cat and a butterfly. Mama had asked Nick to make the frame, and thus a child’s verse had been preserved for all to gawk at.
“I would not expect Nick to consult you,” Della said. “He is the head of my family and regards me as his responsibility.”
“Well, I expect Nick to consult me. Not only because I have more means than Nick and Casriel put together many times over, but also because I am your brother and well acquainted with Ash Dorning. What are you reading?”
“A medical treatise.” On disorders of the mind. Della shoved it into her workbasket. “If you are here to talk me out of the wedding, don’t waste your breath.”
“I would not dream of attempting to dissuade the most determined female in the realm from an objective she fixed upon months ago. Will Ash Dorning make you happy, Della?”
Della had seen Jonathan in a rage, bewildered, courting, and at cards. His commercial acumen bordered on genius, and his knowledge of politics was frankly astonishing. She had never seen him quite this diplomatic.
“A husband and wife can only love each other,” she said. “Happiness is not within Ash’s power to give me, but if I can give it to him, I will.”
Jonathan tossed a bouquet of fading chrysanthemums into the dustbin, opened a window, and dumped the water into the garden.
“Ash Dorning is a good man,” he said, closing the window and setting the empty vase on the hearth. “An honorable, hardworking, all-around-decent fellow. He’s of suitable station, and he will do his utmost to be a good husband to you.”
“If you append a but to that very accurate list, I will disown you.”
Jonathan grinned, because he and Della did not publicly acknowledge their connection. Disowning him was an idle threat, and he knew it.
“The only but I would add is,” he said, smile fading, “but he comes with a damned lot of siblings, and one of them is Sycamore.”
“I like Sycamore.” Mostly. “A considerate brother wouldn’t disparage my in-laws.”
“I am a caring brother,” he said, approaching Della. “That is a different article. I want your marriage to prosper, regardless of how many in-laws you acquire.”
Had Jonathan blustered and paced and battered her with advice—he was happily married and thus an expert on countless topics—Della could have listened patiently, poured him two cups of tea, then shown him the door.
But he refused to accommodate her with typical fraternal bluster, so she let herself admit a smidgen of the truth.
“I am worried that Ash will be disappointed in his choice of wife. He solves a problem for me by offering for me.”
Jonathan, a notably reserved and dignified man, wrapped her in a hug. “That you approach the marriage with some humility is good, Della. When I offered for Theo, I was the most humble, hopeful, tormented bachelor ever to present a lady his heart on a platter. She had no reason to trust me, no reason to see the good in me, but she did. I awaken every day, thanking God above and my lovely wife for my blessings.”
Della stayed in his arms for the space of two breaths, then eased away and offered her brother a smile. “Shouldn’t you be lecturing me about something?”
“Theodosia forbade me to lecture either you or Dorning. I’m also not allowed to issue threats. I hardly know how to go on.” He looked genuinely bewildered.
“You’re going on quite well. Will you stand up with me when I speak my vows?”
Della had clearly surprised him, and surprised herself, with that request, for ladies usually chose another lady to witness the ceremony.
“Me and Theo?”
“Of course Theo is welcome at the ceremony, but I’m asking you, Jonathan. You could have kept me at a distance. You could have refused to acknowledge me. Once you realized I wasn’t attempting any blackmail schemes, you became my brother in truth. I would like you to stand up with me at the wedding.”
“Of course I will stand up with you. Will that offend any Haddonfields?”
Della was weary of considering what might offend, vex, worry, annoy, disappoint, embarrass, or discommode any Haddonfields.
“I will put it to them that I chose you so as not to have to choose among my Haddonfield siblings. They can make of that what they will.” Della would doubt her decision a thousand times between now and the ceremony, but it was still the right decision.
Jonathan wandered off to inspect her little poem again. “Does Ash know you are reluctant to have children?”
“What on earth are you going on about?”
He took out his handkerchief, plucked the poem from the wall, and dusted the glass and frame. “When Willow and Susannah, or Nick and Leah—I forget exactly who—last added to the nursery brigade, you told me you could not see yourself ever bringing a child into the world.”
“I ought not to have said any such thing.” Ought not to have admitted it, not to Jonathan.
He rehung the poem and tucked his handkerchief away. “Theo says small women often deliver babies easily, and it’s the Amazons who have the most difficulty. Has to do with the hips or something.”
That Jonathan discussed such matters with his wife was a revelation to ponder another day. “Nobody delivers a baby easily, Jonathan. I thank you for your concern, but Ash and I have discussed the situation and resolved it to our mutual satisfaction.”
That Ash would simply state his reservations, acknowledge his fears, and put the welfare of a child ahead of his own masculine pride had stunned Della. Men generally wanted children. Therefore, women either married and bore children or became that most pathetic and vulnerable of creatures, the poor relation.
A wretchedly stupid system.
“A matter is resolved to the mutual satisfaction of the parties in a business negotiation,” Jonathan said, peering down at her. “For a woman on the brink of holy matrimony, you aren’t exactly radiating joy, Della. Is there anything I can do?”
He hadn’t mentioned Ash’s bouts of melancholia, hadn’t ranted about the settlements, hadn’t spouted eternal verities according to Jonathan Tresham.