Scarborough welcomed every affluent traveler with everything necessary for a leisurely and well-heeled stay upon its shores. The draw was, of course, the spa waters, but the town council had gone above and beyond to provide holiday and pleasure-seekers diversion of all sorts. Numerous accommodations were available, and those with means could relax by the sea in comfort and ease.

The rooms at the Old Bell Inn on Bland’s Cliff were perfect, spacious and well-appointed with an inside door conveniently connecting them. The servants had other accommodations above stairs which suited Ewan’s plan for privacy perfectly. The door was to remain open while Anna and Gerome were about and would be closed when they were safely dispatched to their own rooms.

As the traveling party had arrived late the night before, everyone had dropped tiredly into bed with little need for direction and even less chatter. The Marquess and his new wife had passed most of their first day by the sea in their separate quarters recovering from several days’ excitement. He decided to read, and she apparently spent her time writing letters. It was nearly time for tea, and they had agreed to enjoy it together in a tea room on the city’s famous cliff promenade. The stroll and the salt air would do them good. Such was their plan. In the meantime, Ewan readied himself for the outdoor excursion.

“From where in France do you hail, Gerome?” the Marquess asked his new valet.

The man deftly worked the blade across Ewan’s cheek, removing all traces of the dark stubble that had grown in since his last shave the previous morning.

“Have you been, My Lord?”

“To France? Yes, of course.”

“Naturally, My Lord. I only ask to offer informed landmarks. Off the coast of Normandy, the Isle of Guernsey it is called.”

The Marquess’ brow raised in a mix of recognition and question.

“You know of it, My Lord?”

“I am familiar. A British dependency.”

“I have British blood on my father’s side.”

“He was a soldier then?

“He was at one time, yes.”

The Marquess smiled. “And your mother is French no doubt.”

“A most obvious and correct assumption, My Lord. My mother, however, is deceased. She died when I was but a babe.”

“I am sorry for your loss, Gerome.”

“Thank you, My Lord.”

“It is hard on a child to grow up without a mother. And your father?”

“I have no family to speak of, My Lord.”

“I see. In whose care were you raised?”

“An orphanage in Guernsey.”

“Catholic?”

“Indeed, My Lord.”

“Ah,” the Marquess sighed as Gerome finished up the shave and handed him a warm towel. “I am thankful for the charity of the Church.”

Gerome gave a rigid smile in response before quickly wiping the blade clean and putting it away.

“Will that be all, My Lord?”

“Yes, only please let My Lady know I await her company in the receiving hall.”

“As you wish, My Lord.”

Gerome disappeared, and Ewan donned his tail coat and heavy cloak. The seaside in October was proving to be as cold as promised, but so was the scenery proving to be a boon to his mood. A debate raged in his head as to whether his new wife should have some credit. When she spoke and when she smiled, she was very much her own delightful person, and he could almost forget she looked like she was Patricia’s sister.

Almost.

Alas, as far as the debate in his head, for now, he would only admit his mood was better for the fresh air. Something had passed between them, however, in the coach ride to Scarborough. Something that felt intimate, and whatever it was, it made it a tad frightening. Henrietta had spoken of a need within her, a deep need, a need for freedom. Ironically, she spoke of it while hardly realizing how freely he let her speak. And without him passing the judgment or censure she feared.

Freedom.

What did she mean by it? Free to think and speak? He could give her that freedom. He had given her that freedom. He took no issue with her thoughts or opinions, whatever they happened to be. And if she wanted freedom to be something other than wife and mother, he could hardly see himself taking issue there as he himself had no great desire for either.

Henrietta had lost her courage to speak so freely when he had asked her about her dreams. He was not really surprised that she hadn’t offered up confirmation of the rumors he had heard about the medical journals. Considering the military rule she had been living under, which no doubt came with the disapproval of her thoughts and opinions, freely given or not, she would be foolish to trust her new husband so soon. But whether she believed it or not, she could trust him with her secrets, even with her dreams. Suddenly, he wanted to win her trust. How to bring that to pass presented another puzzle. Another puzzle within the paradox that was his Lady Henrietta.

As if on cue, her appearance in the Old Bell’s receiving hall interrupted Ewan’s musings. She spoke quietly to the innkeeper before dropping her letters discreetly in the post’s receiving box. Wrapping herself tightly in her bright blue woolen cape, she took his arm, and they set out.

The cliff promenade was crowded with people despite a bitterly cold wind whipping up off the water. Holiday pleasure seekers and locals alike valiantly fought the gusts to walk the length and take in the view. The Marquess and his Lady had yet to decide on a tea room when they noticed a man with distinctly deformed facial features directly in their path. At first, he paid them no mind as he was in conversation with another man. But when he laid eyes on Henrietta, and something like recognition dawned, his casual glance quickly twisted his expression from open stare into a sneer. As he passed them, it worsened into a decidedly-threatening leer.

Henrietta felt fear gripping her. She had thought she would never see that man again, and then to find him in Scarborough was a shock indeed. Her thoughts of freedom seemed to disappear as quickly as they had appeared for apparently, she had not left everything, or everyone, behind her.

“Do you know that man?” the Marquess asked her in disbelief.

The rosy color drained from Henrietta’s cheeks. “Yes,” she replied faintly.

“How? Who is he? I am most put out by how he looked at you.”

She remained shaken. “He, he was once in my father’s employ. In our household. He was lately dismissed.”

“I should hope so. And why? Why was he dismissed? For leering at you?”

“In a sense, I suppose. He spoke out of turn and disrespectfully to me. My father became angry and dismissed him immediately.”

Ewan was clearly incensed as he shouted over the wind to speak to her. “I say, how dare he insult you!”

“He is gone, my Lord.”

“What disrespectful thing did he dare say to you, and in your father’s presence?”

“I,” she stammered, “I had acted foolishly and was arguing with the General, also foolishly, and Seth, I mean Mr. Booth, felt compelled to further add to my shame.”

“Was he false?”

“It hardly mattered. My father was so enraged at his disrespect that he was thrown out and gone within the hour.”

The Marquess, suddenly acutely aware of their public surroundings, their voices raised to battle the wind, and the sensitive nature of their conversation, looked around them for shelter.

They ducked into the cheery warmth of the Daisy Tea Room. A table by the window and a pot of hot tea proved a welcome respite.

“Cake?” the Marquess asked his wife, feeling his boiling from the previous tense blood cool a bit.

“You have to ask?” she replied impishly, feeling the color slowly returning to her wind-chapped cheeks.

Ewan nodded his request for cake to the serving girl. “I will not tolerate such insult directed at you, my Lady. Has he a history of such behavior?”

Henrietta shuddered to herself. A history of such behavior was an understatement. The man was a miscreant with no understanding of his station. With little love for women, he made no secret of his opinions. To him, they were merely objects to be displayed by their men. He believed Henrietta’s pursuit of knowledge and science was a disgrace to her sex, her father’s house, and to herself.

“He has a history of disliking a woman speaking her mind.”

“And you were speaking your mind to the General?”

“I was.”

“Thoughts,” he murmured as he sipped his tea, “expressed freely which sounded very much like opinions?”

“Indeed. Opinions unpopular with someone like Mr. Booth. You see? A woman’s opinions voiced without freedom become problematic. For everyone. Hence ‘twould seem they are better left unvoiced. Unfree.”

She did not regret anything she said to her father. She did regret that it was said in front of Seth Booth. At least around him, her opinions were much better left unsaid. This reality gave her pause to again wonder about her new husband. Could she trust him? She could not be sure. Not yet.

“Unfree?” the Marquess queried. “Not a word, my Lady.”

“’Tis a word, my Lord.”

“No,” he insisted.

“We will agree to disagree on this point. But we can agree that given how society views a woman with unpopular opinions, it is better that she remains quiet.”

“No, again, my Lady. I do not agree with you on this point. I agreed with you yesterday in the coach, that freedom to speak one’s mind is in fact a freedom all should enjoy, especially my wife.”

“Is that so?” She was not convinced.

“Indeed, it is so. In fact,” he announced, “I have made it another rule between us.”

“My Lord?”

“That my wife, my Lady Henrietta, should always have the freedom to speak as she finds, to share and express her thoughts, even if they sound like opinions unpopular in society.”

It all sounded very good—unusual—but good. In fact, only time would tell if he meant any of what he said. She had no reason to doubt him, but honestly, she had no reason to trust him either. She would just have to wait it out. If he continued to assert such things, she might have to believe him.

“My goodness, my Lord. That is dangerously liberal of you. In the best of ways, of course.”

“Of course. I am no rake, my Lady. I am a gentleman, as you know.”

“May I speak with freedom then, my Lord Marquess?”

“Have you not been? Have I not done all in my power to encourage you? Your ideas are quite safe with me.”

She laughed. “So, you seem eager to communicate. However, may I point out, respectfully, of course, that while you will tolerate no insult to my person by a stranger, you yourself perpetrated a gross insult upon me just two days ago.”

He stiffened. “How so, my Lady?”

“You do not recall?”

He recalled. Painfully. “Of course. And again, I issue my Lady my humblest and sincerest apologies. Again.”

“And I accept again, although there is no need to repeat it. I mention it only to point out the hypocrisy.”

“Hypocrisy?” he said with surprise.

“Yes. You insulted me at the altar, when you stared, and you ran, abandoning me there. Now, this day, you are enraged by insulting actions that were directed at me—although I was the one you first insulted on our wedding day.”

She felt quite proud of herself, cleverly calling him to account for his behavior. She cared not that she was calling him a hypocrite. He deserved it. Suddenly, a veil seemed to drop over his eyes, darkening them dangerously.

“My behavior toward you that day was unacceptable as was the behavior of Mr. Booth just now. In that there is no hypocrisy.”

A chill descended between them despite the warmth of the tea room. They finished up their tea, decided against the cake, and endured a long and quiet walk back to the Old Bell.