Free The Wedding of the Century & Other Stories by Mary Jo Putney, Kristin James, Charlotte Featherstone Page B

rolling English landscape. “We’ll reach Swindon station in about five minutes.”
    Sunny lifted her hat from the opposite seat and secured it to her coiled hair with a pearl-headed hat pin. Since they were traveling in the luxurious solitude of the Thornborough private car, she had had ample space for her possessions.
    As she prepared for their arrival, she surreptitiously studied her husband. His expression was as impassive as always, even though he was bringing his bride home for the first time. Didn’t he ever feel anything? In three weeks of marriage, he had never been anything but unfailingly polite. Civil. Kind. As remote as if he were on the opposite side of the earth.
    Not that she should complain, for his calm detachment had made it possible to reach a modus vivendi very quickly. In public, she took his arm and smiled so that they presented a companionable picture to the world.
    Naturally neither of them ever referred to what happened in the silence of the night. Justin always ordered suites with two bedrooms so they could sleep separately. Every three or four days, with his gaze on the middle distance, he would ask if it was convenient for him to visit her.
    She always gave her embarrassed assent, except for once when she had stammered that she was “indisposed.”She would have died of mortification if he had asked what was wrong, but he had obviously understood. Five days passed before he asked again, and by then she was able to give him permission to come.
    As he had promised, there had been no pain after the first occasion, and soon her fear had gone away. Dutifully she obeyed her mother’s dictum and lay perfectly still while her husband did what husbands did. The marital act took only a few minutes, and he always left directly after.
    Once or twice, she had felt his fingers brush through her hair before he climbed from the bed. She liked to think that it was a gesture of affection, though perhaps it was mere accident, a result of fumbling in the dark.
    But her mother had been right; passive acceptance of her wifely role had won Justin’s respect. Besides treating her with the utmost consideration, he also encouraged her to speak her opinions. That was certainly an unusual sign of respect, as well as a pleasure few wives had.
    They discussed a wide variety of topics—British and American politics, art and music, architecture and history. Though Justin was never talkative, his observations were perceptive and he seemed to genuinely enjoy listening to her chatter. Best of all, the conversations were slowly building a rapport between them. It wasn’t love—but perhaps someday it might be.
    She prayed that that would happen, for living without love was a sad business.
    Getting to her feet, she pulled on her sable-lined coat. Though it would warm her on the raw November day, that practical use was secondary. Before they left New York, her mother had emphasized that it was essential to wear her furs as a sign of wealth when she was first introduced to her new home and family. A good thing itwasn’t August. Unable to see all of herself in the mirror, she asked, “Do I look all right?”
    Her husband studied her gravely. “You look very lovely. Exactly as a duchess should, but seldom does.”
    The train squealed to a halt, and she glanced out to see a bunting-draped platform. “Good heavens,” she said blankly. “There are hundreds of people out there.”
    â€œI did warn you.” He stood and walked to the carriage door. “It’s probably the entire population of Swindon Minor and everyone for five miles around. The schools will have given a holiday so that the pupils can come and wave flags at you.”
    â€œIt’s different actually seeing them.” Observing her husband’s closed expression, she said, “You don’t look very enthusiastic.”
    â€œGavin was much better at this sort of thing.”
    Perhaps