Lady in Rags

Chapter Twelve: Lesson One

They were let down onto a crowded dock at Brest the next afternoon. On land, Verity felt much better, taking deep breaths as she walked up and down the street, waiting for Mr Armiger to finish directing a man with the luggage. She watched people, wide-eyed, enchanted by hectic confusion of the wharf and the delightful foreignness of everything. She spoke not a word of French, which made everything seem twice as foreign and wonderful.

Mr Armiger joined her. It was past four, but warm still, and they decided to walk to the hotel. It gave Verity a chance to look at the town, and get her legs used to walking on hard ground again. Outside the hotel, they were stopped by a white hand waving at them from a carriage window, and Mrs Walthrope jumped down without waiting for her driver's hand.

"Are we staying at the same hotel then? How lovely! I will get to know you better. We must dine together. We must."

"Oh yes," Miss Walthrope added with a quieter eagerness, clambering down from the carriage. "Oh yes, we must!"

Verity was faintly curious, and faintly annoyed. She distrusted Mrs Walthrope's prying friendliness, but she wondered what it was about Mr Armiger's father that made him so opaquely determined to avoid the subject. Surely it could be no more horrible than having a weak, drunken, traitorous cardsharp for a father?

Mr Armiger looked at Verity questioningly. "It is our honeymoon," he demurred. "Perhaps another time."

"Oh, don't refuse on my account," Verity protested, her curiosity outweighing her annoyance. "It's only one meal! I can share your company for that long at least."

"In that case," said Armiger, "I'll gratefully accept, and see you both in the dining room at eight."

However, when they were away in their hotel bedroom, she sorting clothes that needed washing, and he finding his shaving implements, he was half in the mind to send Mrs Walthrope an apology and a refusal.

"With the wedding, and the sea sickness, and all the travel, I feel like I've hardly had a chance to treat you like a bride. I should have told her to give me her address instead. It's not fair to you to have to put up with Jane – I mean she's very charming, but she does make one put up with her. She enjoys it."

"I don't mind," Verity said, shooting him a glance from the corner of her eye to make sure he wasn't watching her while she bundled her soiled underclothes into a pile. He wasn't. He was carefully spreading shaving cream on his jaw at the washbowl. She watched, fascinated, as he opened his razor with a flick of the wrist, and began to scrape down his jaw.

She had never yet seen him do this. Of course it was only natural that a man had to shave, or else tolerate whiskers, but it was the first time she had seen him do it. She bundled her underclothes away in a soiled dress, and shoved them in a corner of her day bag, out of sight, and turned to watch him properly.

One cheek was done. He scraped carefully at his throat, tipping his head backwards and exposing the line of his neck, and the angular bulge of his Adam's apple. It was a delicate operation. His wrist turned this way and that, to get at the little hollows beneath his jaw. Done.

He moved to his right cheek, his head tipping down again. He caught sight of her in the mirror, and his hand slipped, and he cursed. A tiny bloom of blood appeared on his chin.

"Are you hurt?" Verity asked, coming to him. "You're bleeding."

"Yes." He dabbed at his chin with his handkerchief. "It's just a little nick. Don't worry. You scared me, watching like that."

It felt like an accusation, and she blushed. "I have never seen you shave before."

"No?" He almost smiled at her. He threw down his handkerchief and began to shave the last of his cheek. This stopped him talking a moment, but when he was done, he added, "The novelty will wear off, I hope."