Blooming: Veronica (12 page)

To keep up their exchange, he glanced away from the rutted road and felt a warm glow just from observing Veronica’s animated countenance.

Her sadness had not gone completely, but their interlude last night had helped lift her spirits. He would do all he could to see that progress continued, and not only because a happy writer was a prolific writer. Although today Veronica looked tranquil enough to produce that second book. At her tender age, she had an illustrious career ahead of her.

When the carriage hit a rut in the road and they bounced on their plush bench, his adorable bride giggled like a schoolgirl.

Ah, yes, his wife’s melancholy mood definitely showed signs of improvement. Her one-sided foray into sex the night before had been therapeutic. Her color had improved, the dark circles under her eyes were all but gone, and her formerly blue-tinged lips now contained the rosiness of good health. From all appearances, Veronica had slept like a baby.

Alas, the same could not be said of him.

Putting her through her paces had aroused him to the degree that only a visit to Sonya had unwound him enough to think of retiring for the evening. Even afterward, when he had spent himself and finally sought out his bed, he had tossed and turned for the remainder of the night.

Today, he remained keyed up, on edge. A need for sex did that to him. And this was not Boston, where he could find his release by squinting through his usual peepholes. Here, on the North Shore, he would need to go elsewhere.

Chapter Fourteen

“You made mention of a Hamilton Place earlier in our ride,” Talbot said amiably, pulling up to the hitching post in front of the shop located in the center of Pride’s Crossing. “I have walked all over Boston but have never encountered that address. Where exactly is the street located in town?”

“Between Tremont and Washington.”

Commonplace, getting-acquainted small talk between two married strangers, a little stilted, very uninteresting, and nothing that would upset his bride’s present peace of mind.

Excellent. He could not have asked for a better start to the new day.

After disembarking from the carriage, Veronica walked bedside him. She was such a little thing! The crown of her bonnet reached only to his shoulder, if one discounted the feathers, which he could not. A hideous shade of brown, the plumage was offensively ugly.

As was the rest of her ensemble. How any one woman could own so many homely outfits was beyond him.

“All the shops on Hamilton Place are owned and operated by female dressmakers and milliners,” she continued along the same chatty vein. “A talented seamstress can make a tidy profit off her work, enough for a single woman to support herself. Not lavishly, of course, but adequately. I frequented the dress reform parlors to buy the emancipated waist. No restrictive fashions for me, no farthingales and dress hoops that trip one up. No more yards of cloth and pounds of petticoats to carry around like an anchor, like a veritable albatross around my neck. Months ago, I took the pledge to dress rationally.”

A rationality that was painstakingly unattractive and still looked heavy enough to sink Old Ironsides. Lord, but he detested her wardrobe. Clothing should be fun. Joyous. Otherwise, why bother?

He snickered to himself. His bride should wear naked more often. Her nakedness suited him just fine. Her body was choice and everything a woman’s body should be. Her titties were full and jiggly, her legs long and shapely, her arms elegant and slender, her ass a nice handful. Not that he would ever fill his hands with any part of her, but he would enjoy observing while someone else did, be that someone a man or a woman. He was not at all picky.

His erection rose uncomfortably, and he shifted his gait from a clumsy roll to an awkward pivot in compensation. “I agree. Tight lacing is unhealthy. And furthermore, your waist is already tiny.”

“I am glad we see eye to eye on this.”

“Hardly. I could eat off the top of your bonnet.”

“I meant that we agreed.”

“We do, in principle—so long as you avoid anything earth toned. I told you last night, bright colors only. And only those styles where the natural shape of your bosom is emphasized.”

“What? Dress-reform parlors will make nothing like that.”

“Which is why I am taking you to my personal tailor. I use several in Boston, but when up here on the North Shore, I go exclusively to him.”

She looked at him askance. “Is he
your
sort?”

“I suppose so, as he insists that women look like women. Natural woman. Oscar Wilde is a proponent of the style for men.”

“I see. He
is
your sort, then. I am all for a natural silhouette, but—”

“Next week, we attend a house party at Hawk’s Nest, a seashore summer cottage in Beverly Farms, and I envision you wearing an aesthetic gown to highlight your innate sensuality. No corset, no boning, no restrictions whatsoever, and with sumptuous amounts of cleavage showing.” He studied her. “Your cleavage is amazing. Why not show it off?”

“Perhaps because it is indecent!”

Had this prim female really gotten down on her knees on a South Boston pier?

Seeing was believing, he supposed, because her sucking off a man was difficult for him to fathom in the abstract. “The style is after the Arts and Crafts movement and is medieval in origin. No hourglass figure, a shape that is individual to you.”

“I am no freewheeling artist.”

“You are a writer.”

“No more. And the style you suggest is not in vogue.”

“Set fashion, do not mimic it.”

“Easy for you to say, sir. You have not recently been painted a harlot.”

No, but some might have painted him far worse in his checkered youth. Even now, in fact. Voyeurism was not exactly an acceptable hobby.

Talbot sighed. Thumbing one’s nose at society was never easy. But she had it within herself to be an original, a one-of-a-kind woman others would wish to emanate. He knew her mind was amazing and unique and that she was temperamentally suited to lead, not to follow like a sheep, so he held firm. “No corset. A loose and free-flowing style, with some smocking and perhaps medieval-peasant-inspired trim. The fashion will liberate you.”

Her attitude turned stubborn. “My breasts will bounce without a corset. That is not the sort of liberation I seek.”

“Bouncing breasts is a circumstance that properly aligns with nature. Many in the movement are vegetarians who shun the wearing of animal furs. And feathers,” he said pointedly, his nose twitching as a particularly long plume on her ugly hat tickled his nostril and threatened to make him sneeze. “Plus, they eschew affected decoration. They use natural dyes in the coloring of fabric. You should approve.”

“I know of this movement. These women are considered loose. Bohemians. Immoral. One lover does not make me immoral.”

“No, but your unconventional attitude toward carnal activity does make you a free thinker.”

She still walked beside him, but she had submissively lowered her chin, the very picture of cowed wife. She was trying her damnedest to disappear, he daresay, her stride only a shadow of its prior militancy.

His efforts to see her blossom into the woman she was meant to be had failed. Before her miscarriage, she had blazed new trails; now she clung to the well-worn path. He longed to restore her to her true self, that determined female who fearlessly read naughty prose in public, who could not have cared less what others thought of her, who experimented with sex to satisfy her intellectual curiosity. He hated this new fear of hers.

As a couple walked by on the cobblestone walkway, she hid her face behind a hand, no doubt humiliated by their intent glances. Bostonians were not the only ones privy to Veronica’s scandal. His wife’s ruin had spread far and wide.

He would have done anything to spare her that. Though he had acted swiftly, his single regret in all this was that his maneuvering had not been fast enough. He had not convinced her father to release her into his care in time to avert disaster.

Why could his bride not see he only had her best interests at heart?

“I can understand a person of your persuasion desiring freedom for all, but to rub the faces of the majority in your inclination in this manner, well, I am aghast. Consider the laws of the land, sir! Are you not afraid of public exposure?”

Disappointment had him by the balls. And here he thought she would revel in the perceived danger of public exposure.

He sought to reassure her. “I have always taken great care to keep my habits discreet, both in the present and in the past. There are ways to do these things, you know.”

At a decorated store glass window, Talbot came to a stop and held open the ornate front door. “Everything will be all right. You will see. Now in you go.”

She obeyed, taking a meek step over the threshold.

Inside, the tailor stood at his cutting board, his measuring tape draped around his neck like a Parisian scarf. The man did everything with theatrical flair.

Talbot advanced into the shop, his bride clinging to his side, not touching him, but close. Too close.

He stepped away, placing the safety of distance between them. “Ah, Alfred, dear fellow, how very nice to see you again. You received my note. You were expecting us, I hope?”

The dapper tailor raced his fingers through his wavy thick blond hair and then placed his scissors aside. “I did and I was, Mr. Bowdoin.”

After performing the necessary introductions, names swapped, a bow and a curtsy made, Alfred said grandly, “As it so happens, I have the very costume in mind for your lady to wear to the soiree next week. A one-of-a-kind design I put together on a whim and which should complement this beauty’s dewy complexion. Right this way, if you please.”

The tailor led their little parade to the rear of the shop, where a workroom, fitting room, and a changing area were located. Playing the master of ceremony, he looked to Talbot, now seated in a purple upholstered Chippendale chair against the wall, well away from the floor to ceiling mirrors, and said, “Would the lady please adjourn to the dressing room and then kindly rejoin us in here?”

Talbot undid the buttons on his dark wool coat in avoidance of wrinkling the fabric. “Everything off, or will underthings do you, Alfred?”

“A more precise measuring demands nudity. However, down to drawers and chemise will be sufficient.”

“Nonsense, my good man. Mrs. Bowdoin has not a silly bone in her curvaceous body. She will make no objections to a full disclosure.” He and the tailor exchanged a long look of male understanding.

“Very well. A wrap is available on the dressing room hook, and I shall return shortly.”

After Alfred left, Talbot nodded to the dressing room door. “Well, go on. Inside with you and disrobe. Alfred is a busy man, rude to keep him waiting, and I have business I must attend to in Boston before the party.”

“What sort of business?”

Finally, she asked something personal about him. Though the return of her curiosity was a good sign, it was far too soon to reveal his occupation. Veronica’s full restoration to well-being hinged on a retreat from the world of publishing. Telling her what he did for a living might exert pressure on her to write, the worst thing for creativity.

Lies were distasteful, but evasion was always in fashion. “I do a bit of everything. Several letters came by post this morning, and I must read them over, but I primarily look after my company’s books.”

She nodded. “Financial records. I quite understand. You business magnates are all the same. Money, money, money. Prides Crossing and Beverly are just full of you captains of industry. From meat packing to steel to textile manufacturing, you men rule the world.”

“Such contempt for ambition. Yet your father is successful, I understand.”

“By necessity. The family is old Yankee, what others call Boston Brahmin, but there was very little actual money behind the name after the excesses of past generations. We very nearly lost the Beacon Hill address,” she said with a shudder. “Hence my father’s entry into business. Shipping. But the docks are rife with strife and strikes these days. While Papa agrees men who off-load cargo have a right to a certain standard of living, he rejects unionization. The way I see it, the wealthy have a moral obligation to help the less advantaged. In respect to unionization, I think—”

Stump speeches on Boston Common were all well and good, and ordinarily he would greatly enjoy listening to a rousing one given by Veronica, but not one on unionization. Talbot nipped her line of conversation in the bud lest the specter of Robert, her past lover, come between them. “I did not inherit my wealth. And I have no great urgency to ‘rule the world.’ Nor am I political. I use my financial wherewithal to support the arts, and I greatly admire those, like yourself, who have talent. Now enough of this delay. Go disrobe while I wait here. The sooner you rid yourself of that wren brown trousseau outfit, the happier I shall be.”

Without making a comment—where had her temper gone?—she left, returning quicker than he would have credited, a pretty floral wrap with a distinctly Asian flavor clinging to her curves.

Now that was more like it. Alfred’s taste in women’s public attire was impeccable. He leaned toward chain mail for a woman’s private wardrobe, but that was something else again.

Talbot leaned back in his seat in a feigned lounging position and raised his hands pensively together before his mouth, the fingertips tapping together, planning his next move with his skittish bride. “Go to the mirrors, Mrs. Bowdoin.”

She glided over to the glass.

“Excellent. Now loosen the ties of your wrap.”

She did, the undone ribbons revealing not nearly enough lush pale bare flesh for his tastes. Though the pitiful exposure did give hint to her excitement. The peaked ends of her nipples stabbed the Oriental satin, leading him to believe she must feel something.

Not for him, naturally, but for the unfolding situation that she must have sensed with her highly developed writer’s intuition.

“Do you wish me to erupt again, Mr. Bowdoin, as I did last evening?”