Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

H arrison had been married nearly a week, and yet, if someone were to visit his home, they would wonder if his wife even existed. Lady Phoebe chose not to break her fast with him, but instead, took her tea and porridge in the garden, surrounded by the litany of flowers she had instructed the gardener to plant. She then spent the remainder of the day tending to one of the hives, which had become occupied by a swarm of bees that simply appeared one morning. She wore an atrocious mask and coat, and long gloves about her arms, protecting her skin from their potential sting as she monitored their daily habits in a small yellow journal that she took nearly everywhere with her. At lunch time, she removed herself to her bedroom to eat and bathe, then spent the remainder of her day in her room until dinner.

She still sat across from him and talked openly about her day and the things she was learning from the swarm as they dined, and their games of Snap arrived like the chiming of the clock, a few hands played and secrets divulged, and then off to bed, only to repeat the same events the following day. It was maddening.

The only change within the home that was slightly obvious was the incessant buzzing from the hive that one encountered as soon as they exited the balcony and made their way to the gardens. The bees were not hostile, their intentions to make food to feed the queen and hive, not start a war, but their constant bizz and buzz were less like music to the ear and more like the wailings of a small child, bothersome and grating. And grating it was, for not only was he just as alone as he had been before marrying, but now it was accompanied by the backdrop of what could only be described as a nightmare. And what was worse, Lady Phoebe seemed utterly content with the conditions.

It was unfathomable, in truth, her comfortability in nearly little to no human interaction. The woman no doubt spoke less than a thousand words each day, and most of them to him; meanwhile, he was on the verge of hysteria at the loneliness of it all. Yes, there was not a single item in the contract that required companionship, nor had he ever asked for her company, but he did hope that there would be some sort of interaction with the person he had taken vows with outside of their nightly dinner and cards. Had hoped that the presence of another person would ease the quiet that had incessantly surrounded him in the home.

The rooms remained untouched, for as she had stated one evening at dinner, she had ‘very little interest in decorating’, and Mrs. Beatley simply continued on with the care and attention to the home since his wife believed ‘she was not very good at such matters’. She did nothing but bees. If she was not tending to them, she was reading about them, or adding more flowers, or studying the dance they did to make the others aware of a food source. He did not resent her hobbies, no, merely he had assumed that their marriage would mean he would be a little less alone, and as it was turning out, that was not true.

After four days of watching her focus solely on her hobby, Harrison had begun to take himself to White’s, desperate for company, even just a change of sound. The men there would greet him in a jovial manner, but rarely with friendly intent unless they wanted something. It would seem his uncle’s rather negative reputation in Parliament had merely spilled down upon him, and the ton seemed uncertain of his intentions. No, unless they were looking for deep pockets to place a bet or a vote from him, the majority preferred him as an acquaintance rather than a friend. Well, all but Averndale.

Jamison Crenshaw, the Viscount of Averndale, had stayed by his side from the very beginning of Eton, though Harrison could never really say why. The man, although angelic in appearance, lived voraciously, his title bestowed to him at the ripe age of two, and their paths had never truly crossed until his first year at school. An invitation to a card game had placed him directly in the viscount’s sight, and whether it had been Harrison’s lack of polish, or the whiskey one of the lads had smuggled in, Averndale had taken Harrison under his wing, determined to make the awkward boy into a charming rogue. Thankfully, Averndale had seen how impossible that task would be, and instead decided to continue the connection in the true name of friendship, and Harrison could not have been more grateful, for true friendship was a rare gift indeed.

Book in his lap, pages unturned since he opened it hours before, Harrison watched the comings and goings of White’s, thankful for the change in setting and sound, and yet lonely just the same as he awaited Averndale. One would think that after nearly three decades on earth, consistently alone, one would become used to it, and yet the yearning never left him. The want for human interaction still nagged at him just at much at thirty as it had at thirteen, willing to do nearly anything for his mother to finally love him, but that too had been an ill-fated notion. His mother chose instead to sacrifice her son to the alter of the title, gaining the prestige of bearing the future earl without ever having anything to do with him.

In truth, Harrison could not blame his mother for her escape. His uncle, who had never once been called kind, had treated Harrison’s mother as lesser, an animal only fit for providing offspring, and when it became clear that he would not produce any heirs of his own, the man saw fit to try and mold her son to his liking. It mattered very little that Harrison hated the man, intent upon never becoming the vicious monster he was, nor did it matter if he were the perfectly curated son, worthy of his mother’s love, she still had left him to his fate in order to save herself.

On his own since childhood, it had been a sigh of relief when Averndale had arrived, taking interest in Harrison, not only as a human, but as a friend, so when the man in question walked through the door, Harrison closed the book with a snap and waved him over. The viscount, appearing more like a depiction of an angel than human, made his way toward him, his silvery blond hair glimmering in the candlelight, nearly turning white as he moved.

“Averndale,” Harrison said, a true smile taking over his lips.

“Everly,” Averndale said, his voice low and mocking. “What are we drinking?”

Rolling his eyes, Harrison summoned a footman. “It’s eleven in the morning. I’m drinking tea.”

“Rather boring of you,” Averndale said, ordering himself a scotch and sending the footman on his way. “This is the third time I’ve run into you at White’s. Don’t tell me you’re already bored of your marriage?”

Harrison took a sip of his tea, now cold from sitting idle for nearly an hour. “I’m rather certain it is she who is bored with me.”

Averndale leaned forward. “Truthfully? You cannot be serious. Ladies want for nothing more than a doting husband and a house to call their own; how on earth could she have become bored of you so quickly?”

Setting his tea cup down, Harrison pursed his lips and summoned the footman once more, ordering a finger of scotch for himself. “She’s enthralled with this hobby of hers.” Averndale frowned at him. “She’s consumed by it. Every waking hour she has she’s in the garden with the bees, worrying about the bees, reading about the bees. The only time she shows me a moment of interest is at dinner, and even then, our conversations are stilted. It’s as if I hardly exist within my own home.”

“Well, you certainly didn’t marry for a love match, so is it any wonder she has little interest? You didn’t even court the girl.”

“It was what she wanted,” Harrison said, the words whispered sharply.

Averndale shrugged. “Perhaps, but you’ve basically requested her to move into a house with a perfect stranger and then be required to entertain him. She is not a jester there to amuse you, Everly. The hobby is surely a place of comfort in an otherwise unknown setting.”

“Maybe,” he said, the words muttered.

“And maybe,” Averndale said, taking the drink the footman delivered and taking a hearty sip, “it is time for you to find a hobby yourself?”

“Beg pardon?”

“A hobby. Needlework. Boxing. I hear woodcarving is very time consuming.” Another sip, this one accompanied by a wicked smile.

“I have hobbies.” It was a protest, and an awfully weak one at that.

Leaning back against his chair, Averndale crossed one leg over the other, his drink cupped in his hand. “Do tell. I wasn’t aware you filled your time with anything but people watching, politics, and tending to your estate, but I’m delighted to learn I’m wrong.”

“Come off it,” Harrison said, sipping at his scotch.

“No, tell me. What fantastical thing is taking up your time and allowing your wife a moment of peace to get her bearings in her new environment?”

Harrison scowled at the saint that sat across from him. “Fine, you’ve made your point.”

“Excellent. Now, finish your drink and then escort me to Tattersalls. There is a pair of Arabians I’ve been eyeing and I think I might let the man convince me to buy them today.”

“How does that—”

Averndale raised a hand. “After, we’ll head to the Western Exchange on Bond Street and ponder over what you might be able to do to fill your free time.”

Harrison sighed. “The bazaar?”

“Yes. Nothing a bit of mindless wandering and shopping cannot do to wiggle free the ideas in our mind. Consider it research. Maybe you’ll acquire a trinket for your wife that might increase your value in her eyes.”

Rolling his eyes in exasperation at his friend’s antics, Harrison knocked back the last of his drink. “Right then.”

After the pair of Arabians were procured, the duo headed to the Western Exchange and walked the three storied establishment, their eyes dancing over small knick-knacks, porcelain, and paintings. The roof light poured sunshine over the stalls, setting the sparkling delicacies to a shimmer, while shoppers walked the aisles, pausing to peruse the goodies. Columns and archways separated the shops, not allowing the browser’s eye to wander any further than necessary, no doubt increasing the chances of a sale for the shopkeepers.

In a back corner, a small shop, softly lit, stood nearly empty but for the shelves lined with ceramic pottery, each in varying stages. Large linen wrapped bricks stood side by side along the bottom, while small pieces of dried clay sat before them, each a different earthy tone. On the second shelf bowls, vases, and mugs, each delicately made, stood on display, some coated in a shiny glaze while others held a rough finish, as if awaiting the final trek of its journey.

Averndale, inspecting some jeweled cufflinks, seemed too immersed to care, and Harrison wandered toward the stall, pulled in by the oddity of it. The shop did not fit into the trend of the exchange, its ambiance a bit too harsh, too humble for the upward set, and perhaps that was why it drew his attention.

An older gentleman sat on a wooden stool, his fingers molding and pulling a slate-colored piece of clay and as Harrison approached him, he rose and smiled. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

“Good afternoon,” Harrison said, his eyes flitting from object to object while his mind wondered at the old man’s motions. “Your shop is rather unique.”

The man blushed at his compliment, his fingers working the clay. “Yes, my lord. I make ceramics, but in a more personalized way than transferware.”

Harrison smiled. “You design them by hand?”

“Yes, my lord. Each item is designed from the very beginning entirely by the client, from the color of clay used to the glaze and image painted. It allows for a more exclusive piece.”

With a nod, Harrison looked at the shelves. “A rather interesting approach for sales. I commend you. It’s a hard business to be up against the likes of Wedgewood and such.” The man nodded, his fingers still fiddling. “Is it difficult to do?”

“Beg pardon, my lord.”

Harrison nodded to the clay in his hands. “Sculpting the piece. Is it hard?”

“Ah,” he said, looking at the clay in his hands. “It can be, but I’ve been doing it for nearly forty years.”

Harrison’s eyes widened. “That is quite a long time to hone your craft.”

The man chuckled. “It’s a hard craft to hone. Even the best ceramists make mistakes that can ruin an entire piece.” He pointed to a tall, soft pink vase that sat on the top shelf of his display. “It took me four tries to form that piece.”

“Truly?”

“Aye. Bugger kept collapsing on the wheel and then cracked in the kiln. Clay is a wily mistress.”

Harrison nodded, his eyes glued to the piece the man indicated. The tall vase, the color of the inside of a seashell, stood proud, its fluted opening rounding like soft petals on a flower. The glaze shone against the candlelight, the color along the ribbing in the center changing as the lights flickered. “What does it take to make something like that?” he asked, before looking back at the man.

“Lots of time and practice, I’d say. And an immense amount of patience.” He smiled at Harrison, as if his question had been a joke. “Would the lordship have any interest in learning?”

Harrison returned his smile, certain he was on the right track. “He would, actually.” Leaning on the counter, Harrison pointed to a pad and pencil by the man. “If you don’t mind, may I write down all the things required to take up pottery? And if your schedule allows it, I’d gladly pay you any sum to teach me how to start.”

Pad and pencil in hand, Harrison jotted down a list of items the man relayed: a potting wheel, clay, and kiln, along with a litany of tools each given a unique name and design. So enthralled in his list making and the potential before him, Harrison failed to notice the older gentleman’s wary gaze, nor that Averndale had sidled up to the stall, a catlike smile taking over his lips.