But Augustine was watching her. She should say something. Thank you, perhaps. Or no.
Or yes.
When she had decided to marry, she’d had Mrs. Cunningham write down a list of all the unwed men in town between two years her junior and fourteen her senior. From there, she had narrowed it based on income, filtering out all who made more than her guardians, and anybody earning much less. She’d used statistics, mathematics, to purify her choice. Her intent had been to avoid the most heated competition for the wealthiest bachelors, to save the Cunninghams from embarrassment at a lower match—and to increase the chances that she would be spared from bearing nine children to mind the family farm or trade, instead of working herself.
In the end, Larrenton and the nearest towns had boasted thirteen men who matched those requirements.
She’d asked only Augustine. He’d been at the top of her list. Perfect in every way. And then she’d met him, and for the last two days, she’d hardly been able to think straight.
She wanted, so badly, to say yes. And that was the problem. Her heart, normally such a measured and predictable thing, had grown erratic. For him. He had been so hesitant to consider marriage at all, and it had only been her terms, her dedication to avoiding intimacy, that had persuaded him.
There was still a chance she would return to normal. That he might never notice. But if he did …
Her fingers played with the ring, spiraling it in and out. “People aren’t static,” she said at last. “People aren’t perfect. An employee you can replace. And though this is a business arrangement, uppermost, a wife cannot be replaced so easily.”
Something darkened in his eyes. Thinking, no doubt, of all the widowers he had known in his career. And then he said, “Jane, I would never replace you.”
“You are sure,” she asked, looking up at him, “that you want to marry me?”
“I can think of little else,” he said, finally taking the ring from her and gently, so gently, slipping it onto her finger. “After a just a few days, I find I’ve completely lost my mind over you.”
Oh.
It wasn’t only her heart, then, that sped when they drew close.
“Doesn’t that terrify you?” she asked, voice soft. She leaned in, her heart beating wildly in her chest.
He swallowed, nodded. “It terrifies me. But you don’t, and I can’t leave the thought of you alone.”
“Me, neither,” she said, and kissed him.
CHAPTER SIX
THEY WERE MARRIED with little fanfare less than a week later. Neither had large numbers of guests to invite; in fact, Augustine invited none. Jane had Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham, Ekaterina, and a few friends of the family.
The ceremony itself was bare-bones and unremarkable. After the devastation and horror of the war with Ruzka, the government had officially abandoned its theism. The church had already become decrepit and half ignored as industrialization unsettled old ways of life; the terrible new engines of war and their attendant death toll had simply finished the erosion in a single, spectacular blow. Halfway through the war, three score people had sheltered in one of Camhurst’s great cathedrals, certain it would not be targeted, that they would not come to harm. They had all been dead by morning, the building a burnt-out, poisoned husk. Faith had hobbled along after that, yes, but it had shed its adherents, its bones and flesh, with every step.
What little religion did remain in the civil ceremony mirrored what remained among the citizenry: a half-grudging, half-panicked belief in spirits and the movements of the heavens, and a deep, abiding fear of chaos and conflict. So Augustine and Jane had passed, independently, through a series of small “rooms” separated by draped fabric in order to shake off anything negative that might follow them into marriage, before meeting in front of the magistrate for the signing of the marriage contract, which was written in archaic, highly structured legal prose that left no loopholes or misunderstandings.
They removed their rings and placed them in a small bowl with an assortment of offerings, and it was taken up to the top of the courthouse spire to bathe in the midday sun while the contract was read out in full. When they put their names to it, the bowl was brought back down, they slipped the rings back on to each other’s fingers, and that was that.
They were married.
Through it all, Jane could not stop thinking of their first—and only—kiss. She had kissed him, and he’d folded his arms around her hesitantly even as he returned the kiss with greater fervor. She’d never kissed anybody before, and had been fumbling and awkward. He had seemed unsure at first as well, but soon had grown bolder, guiding her with a touch of his fingers to her jaw, a pass of his tongue across her lips. Her rational mind had deserted her for a few beautiful, burning moments.
By the time they’d been interrupted by the sound of patients entering the surgery below and she pulled away, the damage had been done. He’d looked at her like she’d ripped his heart straight from his chest, before finding a smile and laughing awkwardly. They’d apologized to each other, he had spent fifteen minutes with his patient, and then he’d walked her home, the both of them careful not to touch. Augustine had told Mr. Cunningham his decision, she had affirmed it, and he had left to fetch the undertakers for Mr. Renton.
It had been the last sobering reminder she needed. Her growing attraction and their increasing intimacy still frightened her, felt uncertain and fragile. And unnecessary. They might have spoken of temporary madness, but not of changing the terms of their marriage.
And Augustine seemed to agree; they hadn’t been alone together since.
She had spent the rest of the week setting up an account book for him and going through two months of patient records to start filling out who had received what treatment, and she had done as much of the work at home as was possible. She had come round only when he had several patients to see in the surgery, and he had insisted on her sitting in to observe. He’d kept a respectful distance, and there had been no more … indiscretions.
But she hadn’t been able to keep her eyes off him. She’d watched how gentle he was with his patients, how firm when it was needed and how solicitous when compassion was called for instead. A few mornings, he’d arrived looking like he hadn’t slept at all, though she knew from his notes that there hadn’t been any house calls during the night. She hoped only that he had not been kept up by thoughts of her.
He looked the same now, as they emerged from the ceremony hall into the blinding sunlight of an unseasonably favorable day, surrounded by a bustle of activity that seemed too great for the scant number of guests they’d invited. Jane stopped in the doorway, staring, the size of the crowd far too much. Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham led the charge as it converged in on them, and she went rigid as they were both hoisted into the carriage that would take them to the surgery. The gathered crowd cheered, growing as people she did not know, drawn by the commotion, circled the carriage itself. The horses threw their heads at the attention and the noise, and Jane retreated into the marginally quieter, very much darker interior of the cab, shutting the door firmly behind them.
“Well, Dr. Lawrence,” she managed.
“Well, Mrs. Lawrence,” he responded, voice a little huskier than usual. He stole a glance at her in her bright blue wedding dress. A boyish smile curled his lips, then fell as he looked out the window. “There are so many,” he said.