Chapter Text
Including “for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health,” he had said, perhaps, a hundred words to her since they met: a four word greeting with a bow when arrived at her parent’s house after weeks of written discussions and negotiations with her father; a seven word inquiry before the day itself, “are you sure of this, Miss Connolly?” with her ensuing assurance met only with a sharp nod; and then, their longest conversation to date, his musings on the blasted weather. Yes, it certainly was an unusually chilly March.
The newly minted Mrs. Russell might as well have married a mute.
Oh, but he wasn’t mute, not to everyone. One couldn’t turn a hundred dollars at seventeen into one of the most promising new railroad companies in America at twenty-three without the ability to stir one’s employees to action, and if he wasn’t captaining that railway company, well—then she wouldn’t be here in the first place.
Actually, she wouldn’t be here in the first place if her father hadn’t dug them into such a deep hole of debt that nothing but a tidy lump sum from a new husband could dig them out again. But why George Russell had been interested in such a thing still proved such a fervent mystery it kept her up at night.
He was an attractive man, certainly enough so that any number of women might have been interested. And while, apparently, he was unable to engage in any form of courtship for more than about a half a second, she was sure there were plenty of other young ladies—young ladies whose family would not need his rather immediate generosity as Bertha’s had—who wouldn’t mind a taciturn beau, at least not a taciturn beau who could offer such a comfortable existence for his new wife. Some women might even prefer such a thing. Surely there were girls who wouldn’t mind that their husbands were gone four nights out of seven, off traipsing to towns she’d never been to and to investigate rail lines she’d never heard of. In truth, Bertha didn’t even mind that—or, rather, she wouldn’t if said husband would deign to say more than five words about it to her on the three days he did spend in her company.
She did not wish to seem ungrateful, of course. As such things went she knew she’d been fortunate. Her parents were taken care of, her house was respectable and her allowance quite generous, but it wasn’t even all of that that assured her of her good fortune. It was George. He truly was every bit a gentleman. Well, perhaps not in business—she could read the papers as well as anyone, and while she wasn’t educated on the finer points of stock market manipulation she knew what the word fraudulent meant well enough to glean the gist—but in every other way at least. In every interaction with her he’d been nothing but chivalrous and that certainly was never assured in these sorts of things.
It was enough to tell her that he was a good man, kind even. It was enough to almost make her sad that he evidently had no interest in her company, sadder still that he was plainly more content to seek that company elsewhere. Because by now she knew that was surely what he was doing. He was gone so often it would be rather easy for him. He may not be spending his time in big cities, with those fancy parlors she’d heard whispered about, but no town was so remote it didn’t have at least some of the sort of company a man might pay for by the hour. And she could think of no other explanation for why her husband had not touched her, not even once beyond the brief press of their lips at the altar, in two months of marriage.
The day after their wedding—and the morning after their wedding night—Bertha had examined herself from top to bottom in her dressing mirror. She had always believed in the benefits of looking harsh truths in the eye, however terrible they might be and so that morning she let her eyes be just as brutal as could be as she took in her reflection. Certainly, something hidden there would explain why the evening hadn’t gone the way it was meant to, the way her mother’s terribly awkward conversation had suggested it should. Her legs held no defect she could see. They were rather short, but then she could do nothing to change that. She contemplated her curves. They too were rather petite, gamine her mother had called her, though she’d thought it a compliment at the time. Perhaps her new husband preferred a fuller figure? It had always been hard for her to put on any weight, but then, that had been when money had been tight, second portions discouraged and sweets rare. Perhaps George would prefer her to plump up—she could do that, if it pleased him.
Her eyes continued up, considering her face, her smile, her complexion. One of her teeth was uneven, it always had been, but perhaps it put him off? She practiced smiling with her lips closed, resolved to get better at it, more practiced so that it might come easier in the moment. She brushed her hair idly, until the strands shimmered. He did seem to like it down. She’d caught on that sharp intake of breath when he’d seen her remove the pins before sleeping. She’d have to do that again, find ways for him to see it before he retired to his bedroom. Perhaps she could do so more slowly this time, to catch his attention, or even ask for his assistance? Or would he find that bothersome? Surely if he wanted to do such a thing, he would.
She would simply have to be patient.
But she had been patient, so patient that two months had passed and all in much the same way. George would inform her of his travel schedule and inquire if she needed anything from him to keep the household running smoothly. She would assure him everything was well-managed and then proceed to entertain herself as best she could while he was gone—calling on friends, checking on her family, doing the weekly shopping, reading the paper and whatever books she wished from his library. He would return eventually and inquire if all was well. She would assure him she was quite content. He would spend a few days again in her presence, sleeping every night a mere room away, never once visiting hers, and then the sequence would repeat.
Perhaps her new husband was only interested in such debauchery that he knew only a loose woman could be persuaded to such depravity? But surely even if that were the case, he’d still want her for something, even if he didn’t think her capable of satisfying those darker cravings? And he must want children eventually. What man, especially a man as intent as George on building an empire, did not want sons to carry on that legacy?
By the time summer had begun in earnest, Bertha had begun to wonder if she’d inadvertently married a monk in disguise.
“The Fishers are hosting a garden party a week from Friday. I ought to be in attendance.”
It was a sentence entirely outside of their usual routine, and yet said so casually, just as their cook placed a platter of sliced roast beef on the table between them. He’d shown no interest in social engagements to date. Bertha tried not to show any evidence of her shock, lest she frighten off this unusual turn of events with an indication of her surprise.
“I ought to be in attendance with my wife, I mean,” he clarified, unnecessarily. “If you’re amenable.”
If she was amenable? If she was amenable? Had she married an idiot as well as a monk?
“That sounds lovely,” she managed.
He nodded. “Good.”
Silence fell once more as George served himself a heaping mound of roast potatoes. She waited another beat, and then another before her curiosity got the better of her.
“Is there any particular reason this gathering is of importance to you?”
George looked up, his brows raising in a hint of surprise. He was silent for a moment as if considering, before it seemed, he decided to answer. “Mr. Fisher has some shares in the Erie line that I’d rather like to purchase and I’d like to do so without certain other interested parties becoming aware.”
It was the first time he had told her a hint of anything about all the business he got up to when he was busy neither seeing her nor talking to her nor acknowledging her existence, and it was silly—horribly foolish of her really—but it felt as though he had just given her the best possible gift, better even than the diamond he put on her finger, though it too was breathtakingly lovely.
She nodded and then, unwilling to go back to their status quo now that the door to progress had been opened, even if only an inch, she pressed on.
“The papers say you’re trying to acquire the line? Snatch control away from Drew and Fisk by buying up shares.”
That had evidently been the wrong thing to say. George’s brow darkened immediately. “Never believe what you read in the papers.”
Bertha bit back a sigh of frustration. “I wouldn’t have to, if I heard one word on the topic from you.”
His face betrayed his surprise once more. Was it really a shock to him? That a wife would care to hear of the empire over which her own husband spent all his waking hours obsessing?
“I didn’t realize you had any interest in the topic,” he replied, his voice even.
“Well, I do,” she bit back, trying not to sound too petulant.
They fell back into silence, the only noise the clatter of cutlery on plates and the tinkling sound of wine in glass goblets.
“If I were to discuss such things, I would need you to keep them in the strictest confidence. I can’t have any of this bandied about town or bragged about over afternoon tea.”
His voice wasn’t scornful but she was cut by it nonetheless. She couldn’t think of a single secret she might have ever bandied about town . There wasn’t a single secret for which she even could have done so because her husband had never shared a single thing worth telling!
She took a steadying breath. She mustn’t let her temper get the better of her. Perhaps he was slow to trust. Perhaps he’d been burned in whatever dark past he so diligently kept from her. She could deal with that. That was manageable.
“You are my husband, George,” she replied softly. “I take that quite seriously. You should know I would never break that confidence.”
His eyes searched her face, and something that he found there or in her words must have convinced him, because he nodded, and over the rest of the meal, and even through dessert and coffee and port, he narrated his plan. He wanted to buy up shares, yes, but not to take over the Erie railroad, just enough to have voting rights sufficient to sway the price of the stocks he’d just purchased down to pennies on the dollar. And, yes, he understood, she must think that foolish, everyone would. And it would hurt him, of course it would, but it would hurt Vanderbilt ten-fold, and every penny of that man’s loss was George’s gain. With Vanderbilt’s bottom line weakened, he could move to take over the Ohio line with no competition, could have the whole area sewn up with a veritable monopoly, and the value of that if he succeeded? Well, it would make whatever he lost in this Erie gamble seem like nothing at all.
His eyes were bright with the thought of it. Bertha drank down his ambition like ambrosia. She’d known it was there—no man pushed himself the way George did, day and night and night and day, without enough pent-up ambition to power a freight train—but to see that fire kindle behind those eyes and bleed out in the quirk of his lips and the warmth of his tone? To watch his whole face warm with excitement, opening up before her eyes, so pleased with his own cleverness?
It was…well, it was something, certainly. Too much of something if she were honest.
“Forgive me.” His words roused her from a decidedly improper turn of thoughts. Though was such a thing improper? They were married for goodness sake. “I must be boring you.”
Bertha nearly choked on the small glass of port he’d poured her when they’d settled in the sitting room.
“I can tend to prattle on, I know,” he continued, his face closing off once more.
She could hardly think of a poorer description of her husband than that. Where on earth had he gotten such notions? Had he had some past forlorn love, sometime before they’d met, who had tormented him to believe such things? Who was she—Bertha found she would rather like a word. Or several.
“Darling, the last thing you do is prattle on,” she said in teasing frustration. His eyes widened. The endearment had slipped out without her thinking.
Well, best not to make a bigger deal of it. It would only embarrass them both.
“I wasn’t bored. Not in the slightest,” she assured him. “I was merely thinking what I could do to be of assistance, that’s all.”
He looked taken aback at that. She supposed it was a foolish idea. She could hardly advise on the subtleties of stock manipulation.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said simply and nothing in his expression conveyed a hint of finding her statement silly. If anything he looked at her appraisingly, like a plant he’d brought home had just sprouted an intriguing color flower.
Well—good then.
If she wanted this marriage to work—and she very much did—and her husband was so dead set on caring about only one blasted thing—as it seemed he certainly was—she would simply have to get creative. Mothers didn’t prepare their daughters for discussions on the finer points of strategic consolidation before bundling them off into matrimony, but she doubted learning such things could be any more tedious than needlework and as she’d managed to make decent headway at that, at least for a time, she was quite sure she could manage this as well.
They settled into silence then, Bertha reading a new novel and George looking over some reports, until Bertha grew tired, and let George know she was heading to bed, ringing for their maid to come to help her. She paused then, though it took her a moment to realize why she had. It had simply felt the right thing to do. She realized part of her was waiting for him to come with her, as if one discussion about his business plans were the horn of Joshua, blowing down the wall between them. She shook her head at her own foolishness, and went off to sleep.
In the week leading up to the garden party Bertha put thoughts of railway shares aside. Such business wasn’t her strong suit, not yet at least, but that was fine, because she had a feeling it already was very much a strength of her husband’s. As of yet, however, she had yet to see any evidence of his prowess in social engagements of any kind. In fact, judging by how well he managed to make polite conversation with her, or her parents, or her sister, which was to say not well, and judging too by the fact that those appeared to have been the only four people with whom he’d attempted such conversations in the entirety of their acquaintance, Bertha was willing to wager rather a lot that her new husband might have been woefully out of his depth when it came to such things.
How fortunate for him that he found himself married to a woman who rather excelled in it.
Mrs. Fisher wasn’t yet an acquaintance but Penny Schmidt was and always knew everything about everyone anyway. Bertha had avoided her since she and George had tied the knot. The unavoidable cost of hearing Penny’s gossip was to offer some gossip in return and she was rather certain the only gossip the woman would have any interest in hearing was the sort Bertha very much didn’t want to be telling.
“I was so pleased to get your note. You must know I’ve been simply dying to catch up with you,” Penny gushed, as she welcomed Bertha into her drawing room where a butler was already laying a tray for tea.
“Oh, me too,” Bertha lied. “You’ve no idea.”
“Such a whirlwind it must have been for you. Why I don’t even remember hearing that you and Mr. Russell were courting before suddenly seeing the wedding announcement in the paper!” Penny’s eyes were every bit as sharp as Bertha remembered.
“A whirlwind, yes. We didn’t see any value in a long engagement,” Bertha said simply, taking the tea Penny’s butler held out to her.
“I suppose not,” Penny replied. “So…tell me! How are the neighborhood’s most mysterious new newlyweds? I want to know everything.”
Bertha had known this would be coming. She had a plan.
“Telling everything would hardly be proper, now would it?” Bertha teased, letting her eyes light up as if she’d been out of the public eye for weeks for a far more pleasurable reason.
“Not even to an old friend?” Penny pouted.
“Even then,” Bertha demurred.
Penny frowned. Bertha waited a beat, then a second before continuing.
“Though,” she started, watching Penny’s eyes light up, “I have to say, I always thought wives preferred their husbands traveling simply for the respite and time alone. It never occurred to me that it might be because the time apart would make the reunions so much more intense. ”
Penny nearly squealed with delight, just as Bertha had known she would. Her stomach twisted at the lie, all the more so because she wished so badly it were true. Not that she needed some grand romance, she wasn’t foolish, but just because she wanted desperately to know what defect he found in her that made him neglect her so.
“Do you know, I always imagined he’d be rather fiery. Something about how dark and brooding he always was at parties.”
Bertha’s stomach twisted. It seemed so patently unfair that Penny would seemingly know her own husband better than she did.
“I didn’t realize you traveled so often in the same circles?” Bertha kept her voice casual, but Penny would surely recognize the intent.
“Oh, only occasionally,” she replied off-hand. “That soirée at the Pendletons? And that one in October at the arboretum? And then at the costume gala the McNeals hosted and that Christmas party at the Winslows? Surely you remember that one?”
She did. In fact, Bertha remembered all four gatherings quite well. But at none of them did she recall seeing her husband in any way, shape or form. How could she have missed him? He had such a very imposing presence. And had he seen her? Or had they merely passed each other like ships in the night, unaware of their future entanglement?
“I do,” Bertha replied. “I still don’t know where the Winslows managed to find such an enormous fir tree or how they managed to ever get it into their drawing room. Quite astonishing.” She paused, waiting a beat for the conversation to lull before attacking. “Speaking of parties, will you be at the Fishers’ garden party on Friday?”
Penny sighed. “No, not this time, unfortunately. Mr. Schmidt has a business engagement that conflicts. Though I suppose I ought to be grateful. It may be a garden party but I’d bet my hat Mr. Fisher would have found some way to drag us out of the sunshine and inside to play another dozen rounds of whist and I can only take so much of that before I’m nearly bored to tears.”
“Oh? I didn’t realize he played.”
“Play is an understatement. It’s his dearest passion near as I can tell. Do you enjoy the game?”
Bertha had never played a round of it in her life. “Oh, I dabble,” she replied casually. “But I suppose I ought to prepare myself to do more than that come Friday.”
Penny offered a sympathetic laugh, before turning the conversation to discuss just how soon after their marriage it seemed the new Mrs. Theodore Abbott had given birth and just how very unusual that timing seemed to be. But as they traversed half a dozen other scandals, Bertha found her mind drift, already planning her next maneuver.
She returned home that afternoon and headed to the small room that housed George’s office. She didn’t venture here often. She’d taken a small stack of novels to a shelf in her bedroom with his permission soon after they’d married and she’d been working her way through the pile ever since. This time however, she was not in search of a novel or a translated Greek epic. No, she had quite a different aim in mind.
Hoyle’s Games: Illustrated Edition
And as luck would have it, whist was the first game to which Mr. Hoyle had put his pen. How fortunate.
Bertha settled down with a cup of tea and began to read.
The evening of the Fisher’s garden party arrived with startling rapidity, George having been away for most of the days leading up to the occasion. Bertha, for her part, believed she had at least amassed a solid handle on the strategies of whist. It was hard to be sure, as she could only manage to play games with herself in all four roles, checking and rechecking how each pair of players might best triumph, but the principles were easy enough. The only difficulty Bertha could foresee of course, was that one’s partner was, of course, meant to know the rules and strategies as well, and as far as she knew, George had never touched the game in his life.
Her husband had arrived home only that morning, only to collapse and sleep for most of the day, evidently thoroughly exhausted from his travels. As such, it wasn’t until he began dressing for the occasion and the carriage were nearly ready to be called that she might broach the subject.
“George, have you ever played whist?” she asked, as his valet fastened his cuff links into place.
He stared at her blankly.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured after a moment. “What was that?”
“Whist,” Bertha repeated. “I’ve heard Mr. Fisher is quite the fanatic. I wondered whether you played?”
“No,” he answered simply.
Well, that was unfortunate.
“Perhaps, I might explain the basics in the carriage?” she chanced. “I’ve a feeling playing tonight will be something of a requirement.”
“I don’t—” he paused, as his valet offered up his jacket to shrug on. “Yes, perhaps that would be wise. Is that dress new?”
Evidently, it was Bertha’s turn to stare blankly. She tried and failed to recall a time in which he had previously commented on her clothing.
“Yes,” she began haltingly. “For the summer season. I thought it prudent to take a few gowns in lighter fabrics.”
George continued to stare back at her, wordless. She looked down at the gown as if the answer to his confusion might be hidden in its floral pattern or the lace detailing around the neckline.
“All part of the allowance,” she continued, lest he be worrying about the cost. “But if we’re to go to—”
“Yes, of course,” he interrupted, as if regaining his senses. “Very sensible.”
He stepped forward, dressed finer than she’d seen him since their wedding. “Shall we?” he asked, extending his arm.
He did cut such a handsome figure, particularly dressed like this. Even for all the distance between them, Bertha was struck again by just how lucky she was. Handsome, intelligent, moneyed, and kind? An embarrassment of riches for any wife.
The thought warmed her as he rested her hand on his arm, enjoying the steadiness of his presence while she balanced in her heels down the staircase and out into the carriage. The ride to the Fisher’s was unhelpfully short in Bertha’s estimation. She managed, she thought, to impart the basic principles well enough. George was a gratifyingly quick study, nodding along sharply at the key ideas of trumps and tricks and coordination and listening to her every word more intently than Bertha believed anyone may have listened to her in her entire life, his dark eyes studying her as she walked though the steps of gameplay. She found she rather enjoyed the sensation, something warming in her as the carriage bounced towards its destination.
In replaying the conversation, however, as she took in the flowers in bloom, and sipped the proffered champagne, and chatted with the few acquaintances she knew best in the shade of a grand awning, Bertha grew concerned. She may have studied every word Mr. Hoyle had put to page as any convent girl had her Bible, but she had still never played a game in her life. And George? George had barely been instructed past the fundamentals in the time she’d had allotted.
Well, there was no use worrying about it. She would pass them off as inexperienced enthusiasts. Yes, that would do nicely. They enjoyed the game but had rarely found others with whom to play. How wonderful to have happened upon a more experienced player like Mr. Fisher with whom to enjoy the game. A bit of such flattery never went amiss.
As the party drew on it occurred to Bertha that this was likely the longest she and George had spent together in public since their wedding. It was a strange thing. For all he travelled away from her or seemingly ignored her presence at home, he proved an exceptionally attentive partner. He stood by her throughout the gathering, never straying further than the reach of her arm to his, content apparently to stand silently at her side while she guided any conversation with those who approached them, only offering occasional affirmations to her statements or replying briefly to questions directly put to him. Her glass of champagne was never dry, not that she drank more than perhaps a flute and a half, but the first had only just to empty before he had summoned a passing tray to offer her a new one. It felt easy in a way such gatherings rarely had before, rather as if she’d been floating mastless in the ocean for years only to find one now planted firmly on her ship, her sails at last unfurling to catch the wind, carrying them forward at twice the pace.
And with that, she was determined to steer them true. George wanted the chance to speak to Mr. Fisher socially. Bertha was foolish enough to think such a thing might be managed at a gathering so large as this, but that was no matter. She had a plan.
“I must confess, Mr. Fisher,” she began, smiling, “Though your gardens are exceedingly lovely, I had wondered whether the evening might finish indoors instead? I hear you're such an expert at whist and I was rather hoping to have the opportunity to play a hand or two and learn?”
“Oh my,” Mrs. Fisher murmured with a sigh beside her husband. “Now, look what you’ve done.”
Bertha could hardly have hoped for a better response, but she feigned embarrassment all the same.
“Oh no,” she worried, furrowing her brow. “Ought I not to have mentioned it?”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Fisher proclaimed. “My wife is simply teasing me.” He offered her a silencing glance. Mrs. Fisher pursed her lips, albeit not unkindly. “So,” Mr. Fisher said as his gaze turned back to Bertha, “You enjoy the game?”
“We do, but we’ve had so few occasions to play together, haven’t we, George?”
“Far too few,” George replied at once. “My fault, of course, as business so often takes me away.”
“Well, we’ll just have to remedy that this evening,” Mr. Fisher trilled happily.
“Careful, my dear,” Mrs. Fisher teased, smirking slightly as she slid her arm onto her husband’s to be led back into their home, “or he’ll never let you be free again.”
A teasing rejoinder was halfway to her lips just as—
“Not to worry,” George interjected, smoothly, offering his own arm to her just as Mr. Fisher had for his wife. “I’ll protect you.”
Bertha could have been knocked over flat with nothing but a feather. George was smiling. Smiling at her. He’d protect her. Christ.
She tried not to look as shocked as she felt.
Four couples ended up staying to play as the sun settled low in the sky and port and sherry replaced champagne. Bertha was careful to steer close to the Fishers so that when gameplay began it was only natural that she and George took seats at East and West to complement the Fishers’ positions at North and South as Mr. Fisher began to deal with the ease of an accomplished player.
Bertha arranged her cards as Mr. Hoyle had recommended, first by suit and then from least to greatest. Spades were determined to be trumps, so they would slot in last of the four suits.
She ran through the rules again in her mind. Always match suit. Only once one has no cards left in a suit could trumps be played or other suits played and burned. Single one’s strength to one partner by playing it early. Draw out the other players higher cards in suits where you have strength early so that lower cards later might stand a chance to win.
Mr. Fisher began gameplay. A jack of clubs.
So, a strength in clubs. Bertha filed away that knowledge, looking to her own clubs, the four, six, eight, nine, and ten all in her hand, a pity as none would beat the Jack. She’d play her four then, as it held the least utility.
Play turned to George, a three of clubs. So, no help there.
Mrs. Fisher continued, a seven of clubs. She placed her own card, and Mr. Fisher began again: a queen of clubs, building his rhythm, until—
George placed a four of spades. Bertha froze. Had he really only had one club? What were the odds on that? She was no expert at probabilities but it seemed unlikely. Had he misunderstood that one had to match suit to continue?
“Trumping so early?” Mr. Fisher teased, brows raised. “Should’ve trusted the papers about you, Mr. Russell.”
“Sometimes we are merely victims of circumstances, Mr. Fisher,” George rejoined, taking a sip of port as Mrs. Fisher played an ace of clubs. Ouch, that had to hurt. And as an experienced player she would only do that if she had no choice. So, two players were out of clubs now. Interesting.
Bertha played her six, before play reverted to George now to lead. If he had listened, he would attempt to signal a strength with his play.
A four of diamonds. She checked her own cards and held back her sigh. Her hand held only the eight of diamonds. Were they really to be so poorly matched? How unfortunate.
Mrs. Fisher played the ten, then Bertha her eight and finally Mr. Fisher finishing with a three, sure already of his wife’s victory.
Three tricks down, a score two-one to the Fishers. Not ideal, but then—
Mrs. Fisher continued suit in diamonds with the nine. Bertha held back her smile as she trumped. So early in the game surely others would still have diamonds to play? She took a chance and played the two of spades.
Mr. Fisher’s brows raised.
“Quite the pair, you are,” he teased, playing the jack of diamonds before George finished the round with a two.
Bertha met George’s eyes, but as always her husband proved nearly impossible to read.
She considered her next move. The clubs in her hand were no help as George could not return them. The spades she must save of course and so all that remained were her hearts. Play high? Or save the best back for later?
She split the difference, playing her nine of hearts. Mr. Fisher placed his three on top, giving Bertha a feel of relief, helped along when George topped that three with his queen, a good thing too as it ensured victory over Mrs. Fisher’s ensuing jack.
By the end of the game, they’d beaten the Fishers eight tricks to five.
“Best two out of three?” Mr. Fisher inquired. They agreed readily, smiling at his teasing assurances they’d be bested in the long run.
As it turned out, the Fishers did win that second round, but, to no one’s surprise more than Bertha’s on the third, she and George proved triumphant again.
“Beginner’s luck,” Bertha offered, half-seriously. She’d been anticipating half a dozen moves she might employ to gain them another invitation despite a poor showing, only for their showing to almost miraculously become quite the opposite of poor.
Mrs. Fisher let out a polite laugh at the flummoxed look on her husband’s face.
“It must be,” she agreed. “We’ll simply have to have you come and play again sometime this week to test the theory.”
Bertha smiled, a feeling of relief sweeping through her. “We would love nothing more.”
Mr. Fisher nodded as well, evidently finished replaying each trick in his mind to discover his own defaults. “Well played, Mr. Russell,” he remarked with a nod before extending his hand.
“Beginner’s luck, surely,” George demurred, “as my wife said.”
Bertha felt a thrill at the warmth in his tone that had her stomach churning in butterflies all the way out and into the carriage.
“I take it you determined it impossible for my conversation with Mr. Fisher to take place this evening?” George asked, his tone merely curious even if the meaning of his words was sharp.
“You suggested such a conversation must take place in private?” she began. George nodded for her to continue. “Well, he would never have left the group this evening. Perhaps we might have split into two, the ladies to sit together and the gentlemen to enjoy cigars? But even then there would be two others with you. Tomorrow, I’ll send a thank you note to send to Mrs. Fisher and I fully expect her reply to carry with it another invitation, this time to dinner as the four of us. And then it will be easy for me to ask for a tour of her house after the meal, leaving you to discuss business with her husband at your leisure.”
George stared back at her, blinking, almost as if she’d been narrating her plans in a foreign language.
“If you would have preferred to press the issue sooner,” Bertha began, concerned, “we could have—”
“No,” he interrupted. “No. That was very…very astute of you.”
She swallowed, the butterflies returning in force at the way his eyes studied her.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“You were very adept,” George continued over the rumble of the carriage. “In your gameplay, I mean.”
It was a warm evening, but Bertha was quite sure the heat now flaming in her cheeks could not be put down to mere temperature.
“So were you,” she replied, trying to look coy.
George shifted, looking away from her as she did, but Bertha, refusing to accept defeat, pressed on.
“I mean it,” she continued. “I barely managed to even just explain the rules before we arrived and yet you handily won more than half our tricks.”
“You underestimate yourself,” he replied, his voice deep. “Any success in such a game such is surely a shared victory.”
It was true enough, Bertha knew that. But that didn’t make it any less thrilling to hear him say it aloud.
“And besides, such games amount to little more than memory exercises in the end. On that ninth trick, for example, if Mrs. Fisher had been truly attentive, she would have known to play her King of Clubs. As it was she wasted her King of Diamonds only to be trumped by your Three of Spades and by the time she switched to Clubs again, she left me open to trumping in turn. The probabilities were clear; just a simple matter of counting and memory.”
Bertha blinked. He’d said it all so smoothly, as if it were child’s play and not for the first time in her marriage Bertha wondered just how clever her husband might be. Clearly he had a head for business, an ability to sense opportunity where others saw merely the status quo and an iron-enough stomach to withstand whatever risks he must to bring such opportunity into reality, but he quite plainly had a great deal more than that.
For all her frustrations, marrying George was proving to be rather like buying a vermeil hairpin, only to discover as it was scratched and worn over time that it was actually solid gold that lay beneath after all.
“Yes, well put,” she replied, as he seemed to be waiting for a response.
Inexplicably, at that, he blushed. It was hard to see it, in the low light of the evening and behind his thick beard, but she’d made enough of a study of her husband’s face to know it when she saw it. How exhilarating it was, to know that for all his stoicism he was not entirely unmoved by her. She clung to that knowledge, determined to push things still further once they arrived home.
George helped her from the carriage, her arm in his as he escorted her to her room. He paused for a moment at the doorway, before beginning to murmur, “I’ll leave you to your maid. Good ni—”
“Oh, but I told her not to wait for us,” Bertha interjected. “Knowing we’d be back so very late.”
She hadn’t known the lateness of the hour, of course, but she had known her strategy. Had the evening proved less successful then, well, she had undressed herself without a maid’s help whenever Monica was away anyway. One more night struggling with her corset laces was hardly any burden. But with what success it had been? Well, George didn’t need to know how capable she was of tugging buttons and laces free unassisted. Not if he might be persuaded to help.
“Ah.” George’s face looked so bemused Bertha felt an absurd desire to laugh. How was it that her husband, who could strategize and connive his way through seemingly any obstacle found himself flummoxed at her vague implication that he might help her undo a row of buttons?
“But surely you can help me out of this gown?” she asked, keeping her tone low in that way he seemed to favor. She was determined—utterly and entirely determined —to put this nonsense—and her husband—to bed for once.
She turned, gesturing at the first closure near her neck. “If you wouldn’t mind?”
He followed her into her bedroom, stepping closer as his hands fell to the first fastening. Was it her imagination or was his breath coming just a hint faster than normal? She’d grown used to the sound of its steady pace in her ears, so often the only sound in the room apart from her own when they were together.
His hand slipped on one of the small pearlescent fastenings, brushing just barely against a bare patch of skin above it.
“My apologies,” he murmured. His voice was rough and the very sound of it felt like victory within reach.
“There’s no need to apologize,” and dare she say it? Would she push him too far and too fast if she did? “A husband is allowed to touch his wife.”
His hands fumbled again, just as he inhaled sharply and the sound cut straight to her core.
“Of course,” he replied, his voice little more than a whisper.
When he had the gown nearly entirely unbuttoned, she pressed her advantage, slowly pulling out the carefully placed combs and pins that would let her hair tumble down at last. He’d seen that action before of course, more times that she could count, but never from so close, never from close enough for the strands to brush against his fingertips.
He gasped, actually gasped, at the feel of it, his hands recoiling back as if her hair had singed his skin.
She brushed it over his hands again to sweep it over her shoulder, waiting for his breath to steady just enough before continuing her assault.
“Could you help with the laces?” she asked softly, reaching around to pull the bow her maid had tied earlier and thrilling at the feel of his fingers brushing hers when they replaced them.
“Of course,” he murmured, his voice satisfyingly deeper than usual.
He worked methodically, efficiently, and never had the rush of air back into her lungs felt more satisfying. He loosened the garment entirely before sliding it down, helping her slip it over her hips and to the floor and then, shockingly— wonderfully—continuing to stroke her waist even now that it was gone, his fingertips brushing the thin chemise fabric back and forth across her skin.
“It hurt you,” he murmured, studying the red lines pressed into her skin, visible even through the translucent chemise fabric after so many hours of boning pressed against her.
“It’s nothing,” she demurred. “It fades.”
She could feel his breath upon her neck, could hear every inhale and exhale as if it were her own. How she wished to see his face, to study it and see what insight she might glean into the man to whom she’d promised forever. But dare she risk it? Her husband—her husband, particularly like this—was some beautiful, wild animal to her: exotic but skittish.
Slowly, so slowly, she turned, sighing in pleasure as his hand stayed resting upon her, tracing her waist as she spun in his gentlest of grasps.
He traced another of the lines against her skin and Bertha, looking up into his eyes at last, wondered just how she was managing not to swoon at the sight.
“But still,” he persisted. “It’s hurt you.”
How baffling that this of all things flummoxed him.
“It’s nothing, George,” she murmured with a smile, almost swaying into him. His hand was so very warm, broad and steady against her. “It’s the fashionable thing to do.”
But—no. No, that must have been quite the wrong thing to say indeed. Some door behind his eyes closed shut.
“You are very good at the fashionable thing,” he murmured, as his hand fell away from her.
Bertha seized herself up, as if pulling every inch of herself taut lest any emotion slip through. If she showed her frustration, her anger, or her hurt—that would only push him further, surely. She had to be patient. Such patience had earned her some progress thus far, hadn’t it? She’d be damned if she would let that slip away, even as disappointment flooded her, even as she—
“It’s late,” George continued. “We ought to sleep.”
She grit her teeth. “Yes, of course,” she agreed, her voice resigned. “Good night, George.”
She waited until he had closed the door to her bedroom before collapsing to her bed and then beating her fist down onto the down feathers of her duvet for good measure.
He wanted to touch her—didn’t he? She hadn’t entirely lost her mind. Certainly, she could still decipher the signs of desire as well as she ever had, couldn’t she? The way his breath hitched and his eyes softened? She replayed them again in her mind, the feeling of want they kindled in her feeling almost overwhelming as it thrummed through her.
She groaned into her pillow.
Had he some defect? Her mind cast about to stories of princes and kings from centuries past, men who left their brides untouched due to some hideous deformity or some basic incapability to fulfill their husbandly duties. Ought she to call for a doctor’s advice? Was that what her marriage had come to and so soon?
But no—surely if it were something like that he would still attempt something. She’d heard stories, gossip overheard when her mother had stayed up late with friends. She knew not all men were equally…capable, though from the age of the women involved she rather thought such things were ailments only as one approached senility.
But even then—even if that were the case—even if he were entirely—why the devil would he not even kiss her?
She cursed him. And then herself. And then her blasted father. And finally the universe for good measure, and let that righteous anger steady her as she drifted off to sleep.