’E ain’t the man to shout: Please, my dear,
’E’s only the lout to shout: Bring me a beer,
’E’s a bonny man wit’ a bonny lass
Who troves ’im a tippler right on ’is ass,
And to hove and to trove, we go, me boys,
We’ll shout as we please till ship’s ahoy.
A lump rose in her throat at the sharp cockney sounds. Tomorrow she would leave England aboard the American steamship Halyon. She left the window and nestled herself against the evening chill in the large, airy room by the glowing fire in the grate. She kept a wary eye on the door that adjoined her room to Alex’s. He had assured her he had booked two rooms for them at the Royal George Inn. She had simply not thought to ask him if there was a door connecting them. She had given up with the buttons at the back of her gown. Where was the maid he promised to send up to help her undress?
She remembered how her mother had recovered quickly, at least, at her wedding ball when she had seen Giana smiling up at Alexander Saxton, her hand nestled securely in his. She had told her mother the truth, two days later, all of it, adding with a sickly smile that Aurora must simply regard it as a seven-month holiday in America, with a grandchild as the joyous result. To Giana’s surprise, her mother had succumbed more quickly than she had imagined. She had insisted they dine together, and Alex, seemingly perfectly at his ease, had lounged after dinner in the sitting room with the duke, smoking a smelly cigar. What had irked Giana was the smile her mother had given Alex before they left, an unspoken message passing between them. When she had taxed Alex with it, he had given her a lecherous grin. “She knows, my dear Giana, what pleasures await you.”
“There will be none of that. We are not married, Mr. Saxton.”
Giana brushed out her hair. She was on the point of braiding it when there was a light knock on the adjoining door and Alex walked in wearing a burgundy velvet dressing gown.
“Where is the maid?” she said, nervously kneading the back of an armchair.
“Damn,” he said, “I knew there was something I forgot to do. No matter. I’ll play your ladies’ maid this evening.”
“What is that in your hand?”
He presented a bottle of champagne and two glasses. “I believe,” he said, “that it is customary for the loving bride and groom to toast each other on their wedding night.”
“Is it some sort of fertility rite?”
Alex threw back his head and laughed deeply. “In your case, Giana, it seems it worked wonders, even with you feeling ill. Not very romantic, though, I grant you. Would you like to undress now or drink a glass with me?”
“One glass, sir. I am tired and would like to retire.”
Giana looked into the bubbles and waited for Alex to make his toast.
“To my English bride,” he said. “May she bring culture to the uncivilized savages of New York.”
“Hear, hear,” she said, “but for only a short time.”
When she had finished her glass, Alex poured her another. “It is your turn to make a toast, my dear. Tradition, you know.”
She eyed him for a moment over the rim of her glass. “To a man who is too conceited for his own good.”
“The man is willing to share his conceit.”
“The man wears his conceit like suit of clothes. Without it, he would be like the naked emperor.”
“Hear, hear.”
“No, Mr. Saxton, no more,” Giana said, rising from her chair.
“Are you certain, Mrs. Saxton?”
She started. “Oh dear,” she said, “I suppose that I must accustom myself to that.”
“Yes, it would be embarrassing to introduce you as my wife, ‘Miss Van Cleve.”’
She smiled uncertainly and presented him her back. “The buttons please, Alex.”