Archive of Our Own

Bellamy lets his head fall into his hands with a world-weary sigh.

How did his life go so terribly wrong? How has he found himself here, with his character in tatters and his future looking bleak?

Those are rhetorical questions. He knows the answers. It happened this way because his skin is brown and he was born on the wrong side of the damn blanket. That’s the sort of thing a man can be judged harshly for, in the small town of Arkadia.

Neither of these things were his choice, of course. No one offered him options when it came to his parentage or the colour of his skin. His only choice has always been to take life in his stride and carry on.

But that’s getting harder and harder to do.

He forces himself to sit up, tries to take in some words on the page before him. He’s reading a book - his favourite, the Iliad - but it’s doing nothing to settle his mind.

He knows he won’t be able to read books like this in the future, if he doesn’t find a way to improve his prospects.

It feels like everything in the world is stacked against him, lately. He used to feel lucky, a decade ago, when he felt safe and believed his stepfather could defend him and his family from all the malicious gossip in the world. But now he’s older and he understands the awful truth.

It all started to go wrong last year, when Miss Bragg claimed he had made inappropriate advances on her on the Greens’ patio. And of course that rumour stuck, because he’s a bastard, because his father was a sailor from the other side of the world. He managed to get out of marrying her, because his stepfather Mr Kane believed the truth - that it was nothing but a lie told to trap him. He understands why Miss Bragg felt so desperate and sought to entrap him, really he does. He knows the world is a difficult place for a woman with no prospects.

But all the same, she has very nearly ruined his life.

After that, people believed all sorts of things about him. It was as if the floodgates opened. Miss Fox accused him of compromising her, too. Miss Bree accused him of taking certain liberties with her person. And next thing he knew, people were whispering that he’d fathered five bastard children in Town.

Really - five? He stayed in Town for three months, one time, last year. He’s supposed to have fathered five children in that time?

As if he would ever condemn a child to being born out of wedlock, the same way he was. He knows he’s remarkably lucky that his stepfather ever decided to marry his mother regardless.

So - yes - his standing, his character and his reputation are absolutely ruined. Everyone thinks him the worst kind of rake. And so no one will let their daughters so much as speak to him for fear of the taint of scandal, and he has no hope of finding a wife.

That didn’t matter to him, last week or the week before. He had quietly and sadly accepted that he was doomed to live out his days alone, caring for his sister and her children, perhaps, in time.

But then, three days ago, he met another disaster.

He can’t inherit The Arbours.

All this time he was counting on that. He was depending on the idea that he would inherit his stepfather’s home, and be a doting uncle to Octavia’s children, and leave it to one of her sons in his turn.

But his stepfather can’t break the entail. He found that out for certain sure earlier this week and told Bellamy the bad news.

So that’s it. Bellamy’s screwed. Totally and utterly beyond hope of redemption.

No one will marry him. He can’t inherit the family home.

He’s going to have to live on his little sister’s charity when his stepfather passes.

That won’t happen soon, he hopes. Perhaps he even has time to find a profession. Only he’s not sure what he can do. He cannot become a clergyman when everyone thinks him a rake. There is no way he will be admitted to the army - he has heard too many scandals of dissolute soldiers, and any commanding officer would see him as a liability with the monstrous reputation he carries in his wake.

Could he study the law? Are scorned bastards allowed to study the law? He rather presumes not.

He sighs again, tries his hardest to turn his attention back to his book. Perhaps he could become a scholar of texts such as these. A tutor! He could teach -

No. No he couldn’t. What wealthy white gentleman would want his child taught by a man like Bellamy?

Another sigh, louder still. He stares at the page, eyes narrowed, willing the tears not to fall. Perhaps he could -

“A visitor for you, Mr Blake.” The butler announces, sudden and entirely unexpected.

“A visitor? Who?”

“Ah - Miss Griffin, sir. All most improper, but I have shown her to the morning room.” He says, lips tight in disapproval.

He frowns. What is she doing here? She’s a friend of Octavia’s, the prim and proper daughter of a local landowner. Bellamy remembers a time when he used to be on quite friendly terms with her, too, but he’s scarcely spoken to her since that first rumour of scandal hit him.

Intrigued - and almost a little alarmed - he heads to the morning room. He enters, bows awkwardly, watches her rise up to give a brisk curtsey.

She seems to be holding a large portfolio of papers. He wonders why on Earth she’s here.

“Mr Blake. Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice. Please - have a seat.”

He takes a seat. He accepts her invitation to sit, in fact, even though this is his home.

Only it’s not, is it? Foolish, foolish man. He’s a guest in this home as much as she is. He’s a bastard, and he’ll never inherit. He really ought to remember that.

“Can I help you with something?” He asks pointedly. This is all most peculiar.

“No - indeed, I believe I can help you with something. I have a business proposition to put to you.” She pushes the portfolio towards him.

He reaches out to take it, because that seems to be the done thing. But then she stops him, sudden, with a hand on top of the stack.

“Sorry - perhaps I should introduce the concept first. Perhaps I should not just give you the papers.” She laughs, tight, as if nervous.

Does Miss Griffin ever feel nervous? That’s news to him.

She really does appear somewhat apprehensive, he thinks, as she presses on.

“So. I have come here today to propose a… business venture to you. A notion which I think will be most convenient to us both. I think it will solve a great many problems.”

“And that business venture is?” He prompts her, none too gently. Has she guessed he is in want of employment and income, and perhaps come here to suggest he might sell her watercolour paintings, or some such thing?

“I suggest that we marry.”

For several long seconds he simply stares at her in silence. He gapes, stunned, utterly taken aback.

She suggests that they marry?

Miss Clarke Griffin - perfectly respectable, not short of prospects - would like to suggest a sensible, advantageous marriage to him?

He cannot fathom it.

“Why would we do that?” He asks, perhaps a trifle too sharp.

She frowns at him, evidently affronted. “Because, sir, it has come to my attention that your circumstances are less than favourable. I am not inclined to gossip, but I know you have no marriage prospects, and that - the inheritance - that is to say, your prospects are not strong.” She concludes.

He snorts out a dry laugh. Not strong. Yes, he’s perfectly aware of that.

“I didn’t mean to ask why I would be interested in such a scheme. I am perfectly aware that I am in dire straits. I meant to ask why you would present the idea. All the advantages would be on my side, Miss Griffin. As a business venture I cannot see how this will be profitable to you at all.”

“I believe I would gain a husband who would be tolerant of my nature and my desire for independence. You are not unkind, and I am friends with your sister. Your mother is not the most overbearing mother-in-law I can imagine. And - not to put too fine a point on it, sir, but you are in no position to be choosy. So I rather thought that, under the circumstances, you might be persuaded to - ah - agree to some terms and conditions I hoped to put before you.”

Now, at last, she does show that he should take the sheaf of papers. But he doesn’t, not yet. There is something else he feels the need to discuss first.

“You say I am not unkind, and yet I have been accused of some very unkind actions lately.”

She nods, frowning, eyes narrowed. “Yes. And yet I am inclined to believe there is no truth to those accusations. So - I suppose this is my chance. An opportunity to secure an agreeable husband - and to take advantage of the fact you are down on your luck, perhaps. All my life I have dreamed of taking a husband on my terms. This is the only chance I shall ever have to do that. So - this struck me as a sound tactical choice.”

He nods. He thinks he is beginning to understand. He always believed Clarke was quite a shrewd woman, but she has truly outdone herself on this occasion. She has shown up at his door, with a list of demands, to barter for the fact he is desperately in need of a wife.

Hmm. That sounds like the sort of intelligent, resourceful wife he might quite like to marry. She’d keep a household well-managed and no mistake.

He takes the papers. Not because he has absolutely made his mind up, of course - although he has sometimes fallen foul of his own spontaneity before now, he does understand that a decision about something as serious as marriage should not be rushed. But he’s inclined to take Miss Griffin’s suggestion seriously and hear her out.

Her suggestion? Her proposal, rather. Might as well call it what it is.

He opens the portfolio. The first document appears simple - the terms on which her family estate, Griffin Manor, can be inherited. It will be all hers, one day. Next is a detailed list of the income, lands and tenants of the property.

That’s all well and good. He can see she has reviewed the legal and financial side of things carefully. But he wants to know more about these terms and conditions, thank you very much.

There. At last. Finally.

A list of her requirements, set out clear and simple.

• Both parties in the marriage will be involved in all financial decisions.

• Clarke will have ultimate authority regarding household matters.

• We will earnestly endeavour to beget heirs. We will be faithful to each other, with no extramarital affairs.

• Clarke will choose the names of all children.

And that’s it. That’s all there is. Just four brief demands.

Is that really all she wants? That’s all she requires for her peace of mind? It almost makes him laugh. She seemed rather uncomfortable with the thought she was implicitly manipulating him, here, by making this proposal when he is so down on his luck - an offer he can’t refuse, and therefore an opportunity to leverage her demands.

But she’s hardly asking for the moon, is she?

It’s only the last one which gives him pause, actually. The others make sense to him. He knows there are ladies out there in the world who are angry with the way the laws are arranged, and who seek to have more rights to own property and the like. So all those points about decision-making and fidelity strike him as being no more than many forward-thinking modern ladies would ask for.

But to have his wife name all the children? That hits him strangely in the stomach. He always thought he’d name a son Augustus, one day.

No. That’s a silly thought. He cannot afford to be choosy or difficult, cannot risk negotiating and scaring her off.

“I accept.” He says easily. “This is a very generous offer on your part, Miss Griffin. I would be delighted to marry you.”

She frowns hard. “Do you not want to discuss the terms?”

“No. They are your terms, stated here as you intend, and I have agreed to them.” He says simply. “But I suppose - I must ask - how do you intend to enforce these? You must know that when we are married you will have no legal basis to insist upon anything of the kind.”

“I know that, thank you very much.” She says sharply. “I am trusting you to keep your word. We will both sign this, as a contract. I concede that it will be meaningless in the eyes of the law, but I know you to be a man of honour, and I believe you will not wrong me.”

He nods, silent, trying to ignore the tears which are threatening to spill from his eyes. She thinks he’s a man of honour. She trusts him to keep his word. After all the filthy lies which have been spread about him, lately, she still believes he will treat her right.

She fills the silence, pressing on. He’s hardly surprised. He remembers she used to be quite a talkative young lady, before he stopped speaking to anyone much.

“I feel I must explain my terms and conditions.” She tells him firmly. “I would like you to understand the spirit as well of the letter of them, so that our marriage can be as harmonious as possible. The first one, regarding our finances - I believe that speaks for itself. I am one of those dangerous revolutionary types who thinks women should have some rights and property.” She tells him, in a staged whisper.

He actually manages a tight laugh at that. He doesn’t think there is anything laughable about the way of the world - that he is so derided for the colour of his skin and the circumstances of his birth, that she is so scared of marriage that she feels the need to make arrangements like this - but he does think it feels good to be able to laugh with a friend.

He and Miss Griffin were friends, once, he seems to remember. Or as close to friendship as a lady and a gentleman can be.

“The second is equally straightforward, I hope.” She continues. “But I suppose I do not mean it only as a matter of authority. I feel that, where a lady’s influence is restricted to the domestic sphere, she ought to at least feel confident in her place there. I will need to be able to feel entirely comfortable in my own home - not as if it is a battleground between myself and my husband. And I believe that, in a world where a woman is allowed to do little, many ladies feel a sense of fulfilment from running a household well. The third point - I expect absolute fidelity. I cannot hold with the double standard whereby men may do as they please and women must be meek and faithful. I do not expect you to love me, in this marriage of convenience, but I do expect to command your respect.” She concludes firmly.

“And the matter of heirs?” He prompts her. He’s managed to find his voice, now. Miss Griffin has evidently prepared words enough for both of them but he insists on having his part in the conversation too.

“Yes. Heirs. I will inherit Griffin Manor - that is how my father has arranged it. But if I were to predecease you and we had no children, you would be left with nothing. Therefore, by my logic, we must have children to ensure you can live at the Manor all your life.”

He nods. That does make sense. “And - the last part? The names? I must own, I had always thought I should like to name my children. I had one or two ideas already which -”

“No. Absolutely not.” She slaps her hand firmly against the table as if to punctuate her point. “This has always struck me as the most absurd thing about our society. A woman must carry a babe for nine months, and then labour for several dangerous hours, and at the end of it, this baby - flesh of her flesh, fruit of her blood and sweat and tears - is conventionally named by her husband? I shall be naming any and all children I bear, thank you very much.”

Hmm. Very good. She might have a point there, actually. Under the circumstances, it might be best not to argue.

“I quite understand.” He says, as calm and placating as he can manage. “I agree to your terms without reservation. When shall we have the banns read?”

She nods at him, approving, and even treats him to a warm smile. “As soon as can be arranged, if that suits you?”

“Yes. That suits me perfectly.”

He cannot wait to get out of this house, now he understands he can only ever be a guest beneath this roof. He doesn’t relish the thought of living with his wife’s parents, perhaps. But it has to be a damn sight better than living every day as a bastard at the mercy of his stepfather’s generosity.

…….

Two weeks later, Bellamy is perhaps regretting the short engagement.

He’s not regretting his hasty decision to marry Miss Griffin. Not at all. He’s quite convinced no better prospect would ever have come his way. But he thinks he might regret rushing to the altar so quickly. At this point, he has only ten days before he becomes a married man, and he’s still never even called his wife by her Christian name.

Clarke. He knows that’s it. He’s heard her called by it quite often, too - she’s close with his sister, and he’s often been in company with her whole family together.

But he’s never said it. And he’s never kissed her, or touched her hand without gloves between them, or brushed a lock of hair back from her cheek. He’s never brought her flowers, or written poetry, or done any other thing a gentleman might do in the course of courtship.

In short, he feels that he’s about to marry without romance.

It’s not that he’s about to marry a stranger. It’s not as simple as that. She’s his close neighbour, his sister’s good friend. He knows her character and her mannerisms fairly well. And once upon a time, before his name was dragged through the mud, he did dance with her a time or two.

He seems to remember that, when she very first came out, he used to wonder whether they might suit.

It’s not that he ever felt himself actually falling in love with her, or any such thing. But she’s always been shapely and lively and her eyes are really very very blue. So, naturally, since their families are close, and she’s just a few years younger than him, and society is limited around here, he did used to find himself thinking she might feature on his mental list of prospective wives.

But then that list was burnt into cinders when the scandal hit him. And now he’s marrying her suddenly, quickly, because she thinks it’s a sensible business proposition.

It’s not how he always dreamed it would happen.

He sighs, scrapes a hand across his forehead. He’s supposed to be reviewing some documents Mr Griffin sent over regarding the marriage and the entail on the estate. But the words aren’t sinking in.

He’s actually relieved when he hears footsteps in the hallway outside. That sounds like his sister’s tread. A conversation with her should distract him for a moment or two.

“Octavia?” He calls out to her hopefully.

Sure enough, it’s her. “Big brother. Hello. How is your morning progressing?”

He sighs, stares down at the page. “Slowly.”

“Then I have some good news for you. I’m expecting Clarke for a visit in about an hour.”

“I hope you enjoy your visit very much.” He says, level. He can’t see how his sister’s social life can have anything to do with him.

“Will you join us?” She asks now. “You are marrying her next Thursday. I hardly think it would be so shocking if you wanted to take tea with us.”

He frowns to himself. “I’ll leave you to your visit. I know she comes here out of friendship with you, not out of any desire to see me. But I will join you briefly to return these documents to her, to pass on to her father.” He says.

That’s a good idea, he thinks. That sets him a deadline - he has one hour to finally read these damn papers.

Octavia frowns at him. “Why are you avoiding her? Why don’t you want to join us for tea?”

“I am not avoiding her. We are simply carrying on as we ever did. She is your friend, and she will visit you, but I shall have no objection to spending a few minutes in her company as I pass by and hand over these papers. That is the nature of our acquaintance.”

“No - that was the nature of your acquaintance. But you’re marrying her now, big brother. You cannot carry on in this fashion.”

“I certainly can.” He contradicts her. “This is to be a marriage of convenience. There is no need for me to smother her with my presence. I hardly expect us to spend all our waking hours together after we marry, either. You know how it is - not every young couple marries for love.”

Silence sits for a moment. He tries to take his eyes back to the pages before him, but for some reason his brain is still not cooperating.

And then -

“She doesn’t like it.” Octavia says, quiet, almost tentative. It’s a voice most unlike the strident tone he usually associates with his baby sister.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Clarke doesn’t like it when you avoid her. Please - you mustn’t tell her I said anything. But every time we have visited together, these last couple of weeks since your engagement, she has asked after you. And then - yesterday -” Octavia breaks off, frowning, as if wondering whether she has said too much.

Bellamy thinks she has said both too much and too little, both at the same time. And she certainly can’t stop now.

“O? What is it? Whatever is the matter?”

“She was a - a little upset, I suppose I would say. Disappointed. She confided in me at last that she had been hoping you would be friends in your engagement and marriage if nothing else. The way you continue to see her so rarely… She thinks she might have made the wrong choice.”

Her words hang there, in the air between them.

She thinks she might have made the wrong choice.

Clarke thinks their engagement, their marriage, might be a mistake. She’s doubting the decision she made. He’s been so distant - so coldly polite - that she is disappointed.

She was hoping they’d be friends.

He swallows hard. He’d like that. Dear God, he’d like that so much. He’s had precious few friends, these recent months, since his name was ruined. He’d very much like to find friendship with his wife.

He can think of worse friends than a sharp, blue-eyed beauty with the strategic mind of a general.

“I didn’t realise.” He says, shaking his head. “I had no idea. I thought she meant it to be purely a business arrangement - albeit a respectful one. I had no idea she was hoping for some warmth and friendship as well as the respect and cooperation she emphasised so much in our negotiations.”

“Really? You thought to cooperate with her coldly? You thought to show your respect for her financial acumen by never, ever speaking to her?”

Yes. Well. Put like that, it does sound foolish.

He’s about to say something even more foolish, though. Something more ridiculous, but also something much more personal and precious.

“I couldn’t see why she would want my friendship.” He admits now. “I’m… nothing. I’m ruined. I’m the bastard son of a sailor from the colonies. Most of Arkadia will cross the street rather than bidding me good day. Why would Miss Griffin want to spend time with me?”

“Bell. I know the world has hurt you lately, and I’m sorry for that. But would Clarke really be marrying you if she cared about such things as your illegitimacy or your reputation? She knows you are a good man. She chose to make that proposal to you because she sees something in you which has her convinced that you will be a good husband.”

“And that’s why she is doubting her decision, now, because I have let her down.” He mutters sadly.

“Hardly, big brother. You have not let her down. I am telling you what she said because I want to show you there is still time to make something good of this marriage.”

“Yes. Very well. I’ll join you for tea. Send for me when she gets here. In an hour, you said?”

Octavia nods, and agrees, and leaves the room.

Somehow, Bellamy finds it a little easier to read those papers, now. It all feels less stilted and uncomfortable, now that he feels some conviction that Miss Griffin does actually want to be married to him. She’s hoping they might really get along well in the future. That thought helps him relax and concentrate.

It’s funny how something as small as a little rumour, a conversation reported by his sister, can make or break a man’s mood.

He finishes reading and signing everything which is required. He still has a little time before Miss Griffin is due to arrive, so he picks up a book and takes it to a seat near the window.

He thinks it can’t hurt to have a view of the drive. Running down the stairs to meet her carriage when he sees her coming suddenly strikes him as quite a good way of showing enthusiastic goodwill.

He gives it a try. When her carriage is on the drive, he sets aside his book, gets to his feet, runs eagerly down the stairs.

He arrives at the door of her carriage just as one of the footmen is handing her down. She looks a little taken aback, he thinks.

“Mr Blake. Hello. This is a pleasant surprise.” She says, as she greets him with a curtsey.

He reaches for her hand and bows over it. “Miss Griffin. Good morning. It’s a pleasure to be able to welcome you. How was the drive?”

“Unremarkable. How was your morning?”

“Considerably brighter since I learned you would be coming to call.”

She looks more confused than happy about that implicit compliment. Never mind. He will persevere. He will show her that she certainly didn’t make a mistake by proposing to him in that peculiar, wonderful way.

He presses on. There’s another thing he thinks might help her to realise he means this to be a warmer and less impersonal engagement than they have shared so far.

“I have been thinking - if we are to be married next Thursday, I think it’s high time we addressed each other by our Christian names, if you are comfortable with that.” He offers cautiously.

She throws him a look. “Indeed. I think that’s an excellent idea. I was growing worried we would make it as far as the marriage bed and I’d still be calling you Mr Blake.”

“Perhaps I shall call you Mrs Blake in bed just to be a tease.” He offers lightly. “I know some couples quite like to make a fuss about that when they are newly married.”

She snorts out a laugh. “You will call me Clarke, please. I know I will be Mrs Blake in the eyes of the law, and I’m not ashamed of your name in the slightest. But I am my own person too. I am Clarke.”

“Indeed. Clarke.”

He doesn’t mean for it to come out fuzzy. He just means to say it, plain and simple. But somehow his throat is thick and he ends up sort of caressing the word, wrapping it in a warm woollen blanket as he presents it to her.

Clarke.

He’s going to have to practise saying that as if it doesn't affect his composure.

“Thank you, Bellamy. Shall we go in and have tea?”

Oh. Yes. Of course. She’s here to take tea with his sister. He probably shouldn’t keep her standing on the drive all afternoon.

…….

By the time his wedding day dawns, Bellamy has still never kissed his future wife, or given her flowers, or any other common gesture of courtship.

But he has at least spoken to her a great deal in the last ten days, so he thinks at least they are in a comfortable situation. If nothing else, they will enjoy each other’s company, be kind to each other in bed, and be respectful of each other in all matters of finance and business.

That’s better than many marriages, as far as he can tell. And it’s a damn sight better than the utter lack of prospects he was facing a month ago.

He’s still disappointed, in some ways. As he gazes into the mirror and looks himself in the eyes, on the morning of his wedding, he can see a certain sadness lingering there.

He’s always been a hopeless romantic. He’s always been drawn to stories of heroes and adventure and, yes, also of love. And once upon a time he used to dream of having a marriage built on genuine affection, like the ones those newfangled novelists write about.

Once upon a time, he used to wonder if that affectionate wife might one day be Clarke.

It’s a thought which has been coming to him more and more often in recent days. He’s quite convinced he was never so close to pursuing her, back when she first came out, back before he was ruined. He seems to remember he only ever thought that she might be a decent prospect, one day, if no one else struck his interest and their pool of acquaintances stayed small.

But somehow, lately, he has himself convinced that he was always going to end up married to her.

No. He’s being silly. It’s just his innate sense of romance, his foolish emotional heart rewriting history to give himself a happy ending. He’s telling himself he always liked her, because he wants to believe this marriage is something special.

Because he can’t face the truth that it’s simply two cordial acquaintances, saying their vows in a near-empty church.

He sighs. He rubs a finger over the dark shadow beneath his right eye, and it doesn’t budge. And his left eye looks just the same - his tiredness and disappointment, mocking him.

Well, then. Very good. He had best go to his wedding.

…….

The most unsettling thing about the wedding night Bellamy shares with Clarke is that it happens in an unfamiliar bedroom - or rather, a bedroom which is unfamiliar to him. 

It’s hardly a strange new room to her. It’s her bedroom, at her parents’ house. It’s the very bed she’s slept in ever since she left the nursery as a child, she tells him.

That makes him uncomfortable, to say the least.

Not the idea that Clarke used to be a child - she’s very definitely a woman grown, now, and he’s having no problem wrapping his head around the basics of nature and age and maturity. But the idea that he’s moving seamlessly into her space, taking up residence in her life, while her routine keeps rolling on just as it always has done. It’s not at all common, in his experience, for a gentleman to move in with his newlywed wife. Normally the wife moves to live with her husband’s family. Things only turn out this way when, in a rare circumstance like his, a man is marrying an heiress, or seriously marrying up in the world.

So - when a ruined bastard is marrying a prim and proper young lady, then.

He wonders if almost every young woman in the world feels this way on her wedding night. He can imagine himself in their shoes - or their delicate satin slippers, perhaps - as he pads around Clarke’s room on tentative feet, unpacking his small valise. He has a trunk out in the hall, with all the rest of his clothes, but he’s hardly going to drag that in here tonight. For all that this marriage has been more practical than romantic, he understands that his wife doesn’t want to watch him fold his worn underthings and find space for them in her room on their first evening as a married couple.

So it is that he has just the bare essentials to hand for tonight. Shaving kit. Tooth powder. A threadbare grey flannel.

A bellyful of nerves, and a sense of overwhelming homesickness. The two of them make for quite a nauseating cocktail.

Yet again, he finds himself pitying all those young ladies - younger than him, with none of the legal power he holds - who find themselves sleeping in a stranger’s bed on the night they marry. This sense of displacement, of trespassing on someone else’s territory, is quite overwhelming.

This whole situation makes him more conscious than ever of his status, too. He’s Clarke’s social inferior in every way - that’s why he’s in her bedroom, because he has no bedroom to call his own to offer her. And there’s something very emasculating about him taking the role usually assigned to the blushing virgin girl. Not that he cares about what is expected of a man or a woman so very much, of course - it’s just that he knows everyone in the village will talk.

If there’s one thing he’s learnt, this year, it’s that the folk of Arkadia do like to gossip.

“Bellamy? Your shirts?” Clarke asks pointedly.

He starts, throws her a furtive look. From the tone she took with him just then, he gets the sense she is growing impatient. She must have noticed his woolgathering.

“I do beg your pardon - what was that you said about shirts?” He tries.

Her face softens. She doesn’t speak sternly to him - and he’s almost surprised by that, honestly. In his experience, she’s capable of being quite an intimidating woman.

“I wanted to ask you if that space in the wardrobe will be sufficient for your shirts. But I see, now, that this is not the time to press you for answers about storing your clothes. Getting married can be a little overwhelming, can’t it?” She asks knowingly.

He cracks a stiff grin. So apparently they’ve both been shaken today - even proud, brave Clarke, who presented that outrageously bold proposal to him like it was nothing.

“The ceremony itself was perfectly comfortable - at least for me.” He offers. “I was pleasantly surprised by how many people chose to claim us as friends and turn out to support the occasion.”

“Yes - I must agree with that. But the wedding breakfast? The endless questions and prying? The gossiping matrons judging me for the breadth of my hips?” She recalls, with a tight laugh.

“I think your hips are perfectly proportioned.” He says, and means it.

She’s laughing in earnest now. “You are gallant, Bellamy. I knew it - you’ll make a fine husband. Keep on complimenting the proportions of my hips and we won’t go far wrong.”

“I do hope so. I must admit that - ah - the part that has made me uncomfortable is this part. Arriving in your room. I know it is to be our room now, but I feel terribly out of place.”

“Then perhaps you should concentrate on the bed alone.” She says outright.

He splutters out a shocked laugh. “I beg your pardon?”

“Ignore the curtains I hemmed. Ignore my clothes and the wardrobe they hang in. Focus on the bed. That is not too overwhelming, I hope? It’s a bed like any other. We’d have white sheets like these on our wedding night in any bed in the country. And while we get to work on consummating this marriage, there will just be the two of us, and a bed. No need to so much as look at the rest of the room.”

He grins at her. He doesn’t choose to do so - it’s simply an instinctive reaction to her speech. Those words which were perfectly chosen, perfectly timed. This is exactly why she’s such a sensible choice of wife for him - she’s compassionate but unrelenting, firm but deeply kind. And above all, she does have a knack for solving problems.

“Ignore the curtains, focus on the bedsheets.” He summarises, a true smile still playing about his lips.

“Or focus on your bedmate.” She suggests, pert and cheeky.

“Yes. I think that won’t be such a challenge. I’m a very lucky man.” He tells her, and hopes his staring at her lips is not too blatantly obvious.

Hmm. No. Probably that ship has sailed. It’s probably coursing straight past the harbour wall by now. But he’s powerless to do a damn thing about it, frankly. He’s fantastically fortunate to have found a wife who is both convenient and beautiful.

Did he always notice her beauty? Did he ever used to remark upon her appearance, beyond those lively blue eyes?

He can’t rightly recall the truth of it, any more. That story he has been telling himself, about always wanting her for a wife, is growing louder by the second.

“I - thank you.” Clarke mutters, biting her lip. “I feel quite fortunate too. I - ah - that is to say, you -” She grins to a halt.

He grins at her, cheeky. She was definitely wondering about paying him a compliment, there.

“Shall we get ready for bed? Should I call for a maid?” She asks now.

“No need.” He tells her, with a wave of his hand. He knows Griffin Manor is a smaller property than The Arbours, and that Clarke’s family is less wealthy than his stepfather. There aren’t so many servants in the house, and she doesn’t have her own personal maid.

But he won’t have her feeling self-conscious about a little thing like that while she’s quite literally turning his fortunes around.

So it is that he stands up, walks over to his lovely new wife, and starts unbuttoning her dress.

“It is a bit of good luck that I am not easily taken by surprise, otherwise I might be shocked and ask what you are doing.” Clarke muses out loud, throwing a pointed look at him over her shoulder.

He laughs. “What else would I be doing? This is our wedding night. You asked me to concentrate on bedding you. So I intend to strip you naked and worship every inch of your bare skin.”

She shivers - and it’s not particularly cold in here, for what it’s worth.

So it is that he presses on. “You’re not altogether innocent, I presume? You strike me as a young lady who has behaved herself, but who is not ignorant of the world. You have read books and spoken to your married friends? Your mother has told you what to expect?”

“Better - I have read a pamphlet!” She declares proudly. “I warned you I was a revolutionary sort. There are pamphlets these days, you know, on how to make sexual intercourse comfortable and even pleasurable for a woman.”

He laughs - not a patronising laugh, but a joyful one. “Trust me, Clarke, you will need no pamphlets. I may not bring money or status to this union, but I do bring a skilful tongue, I like to think.”

That’s when he realises it. That’s when he realises he’s got carried away, relaxed too far, starting acting dangerously open around her.

“I mean - that is to say - obviously those rumours of my fathering bastard children in Town are false. I have never done anything so thoughtless. I only mean that - you know - I do have some experience in this area, and I hope to be able to make it pleasurable for you. I hope I may be more use to you as a husband in bed than in any other regard. That is all I meant to say.”

She spins around. She turns to face him, whipping her half-unbuttoned dress right out of his shaking hands. Has he ruined this marriage so soon? Is it to be over almost before it has begun - annulled without consummation, perhaps? Has she taken his thoughtless boasting as a sign of loose conduct, or even as a sign of infidelity since their engagement?

She really does look most displeased with him.

“I wish you’d cease talking like that.” She tells him firmly. “I refuse to allow you to say that you are worth so little as a husband. I tell you, I am very happy with the choice I have made - the choice we have made, together. You are agreeable, and kind, and you have sworn to allow me some independence. I have a good friend for a husband - not every woman can say as much. So you must stop speaking in such terms, as if this were a poor bargain.”

He clears his throat, swallows a gulp which tastes strongly of tears.

“I take no orders from you.” He tells her, with a game attempt at teasing.

She sees right through him. Of course she does. She’s still frowning, treating him to only a half-smile for his paltry attempt at humour.

He swallows once more, and tries to push things back on course.

“So - if I stop putting my foot in my mouth, may I put my cock in your cunt instead?”

She laughs out loud, head thrown back, as she reaches for his hands. Apparently she finds vulgarity and talk of bedsport amusing rather than offensive. That's promising - he's not sure he'd know how to act around a blushing innocent.

“I believe I was promised your skilful tongue, first.” She reminds him sharply.

He kisses her then. It’s long overdue, perhaps. Doesn’t every young man grow up trading kisses with the girl on the neighbouring estate? Practising such things along with climbing trees and playing catch?

He and Clarke were never like that, somehow. Perhaps because she was always different, in his eyes. Perhaps because he had her at the top of his mental list of prospective brides from the very moment he realised she had become a young woman.

She kisses him back. He’s surprised she knows how, honestly. Don’t young ladies like Clarke live quite a sheltered life? But she’s giving as good as she gets, lips easing open, tongue peeping out in curiosity as she kisses him deeper.

He finishes unfastening her dress, fumbling at the buttons without looking while he keeps kissing her. His shirt seems to get lost along the way, too, and suddenly her eager hands are stroking all over his chest and shoulders and back.

He thinks this is going rather perfectly, all things considered. At last they have really hit their stride and found something about this marriage which just works, instinctively, with neither of them thinking too hard or fretting too much.

“Are you well?” He asks, pulling back just far enough to look her in the eyes.

She tuts a little. “Quite well. You can keep kissing me. I am not fragile - I will tell you if I’m uncomfortable. For now I’d like to press on.”

Very well. She asked for it.

He strips off the rest of her clothes, his hands wandering as he goes. Her stays cause him a little delay, but he manages to discard them in the end. He presents his hips to her, too, pressing shamelessly close to her and silently begging her to get his breeches out of the way.

She does. She’s a good wife like that - good at understanding what he needs, even when he doesn’t ask for it in words. Good at offering him what he truly requires, on her own initiative.

And only then - then, when they are both naked, bare skin against bare skin - does he reach for the first of the pins in her hair.

“I’ve been thinking of this.” He admits, voice deep and rough, as he lets the first curl fall. “I’ve been thinking of your hair tumbling around your shoulders. Of tangling it around my fingers, too.” He tells her, tugging out more pins, stroking his fingers through the golden curls.

She moans. She actually moans. Calm, sensible Clarke Griffin moaning at his touch.

That is - Clarke Blake, now.

He gets bolder. He wraps a generous lock of her hair right around his wrist. His wrists are strong, substantial - he’s no idle gentleman. He spends a good deal of time outside, or else practising his boxing. So the image of her thick, wavy hair wrapped around his brawny forearm is quite something.

He’s going to be dreaming of that tonight.

He tugs. He tugs quite hard, in fact, because he knows that won’t be too uncomfortable for her when it’s such a large section of hair he’s tugging. It won’t be the sharp, prickling pain of just taking a few strands.

Sure enough, she moans again. She actually gets up onto her toes, pressing her head closer into his hand, pressing her face closer into his shoulder.

Well, now. That’s quite the reaction.

He reaches down for another kiss, still playing with her hair. He untwists that beautiful shackle around his wrist, takes out the rest of the pins. He combs as he goes, and he fears he’s creating utter chaos she’ll have to brush out in the morning, but really he’s too excited to care.

His cock is hard and butting against her, by now. He’d love to stand around all day, perhaps write some poetry about her hair and eyes. But the beast that lives inside of him is pacing hungrily in its cage, starting to demand satisfaction.

“What else is that tongue good for?” Clarke asks him outright.

He laughs, feels her press ever closer, as if trying to share his chuckle.

“Let me show you.” He says simply.

He lifts her up, carries her the short distance to the bed. He sets her down as gently as he can - he wants to cherish her, but he’s also feeling rather eager to get onto the next part.

Then he simply sets himself between her legs and gets to work.

Clarke gets the idea right away, of course, and sets to enjoying herself without hesitation. Within seconds she’s pressing her hips closer against his face, as if begging him for more.

He chuckles. He fears that might not feel good for her, but he’s powerless to help it. This has all ended up being far more easy and entertaining than he ever expected. He honestly can’t remember the last time he laughed so easily as he has laughed with Clarke tonight.

She really has a talent for chasing his demons away.

He coaxes the first orgasm from her with his mouth quickly. She’s quiet but evidently rather struck by it, trembling against him and breathing in strange, gasping sighs.

Now for the next act.

“I hope that’s not all.” She challenges him, bold, as soon as she is breathing calmly once again.

Another laugh. She’s good for his soul, this woman. “Not by half. Are you ready for what comes next?”

“You must know I can’t answer that question. I am an innocent, more or less, despite those pamphlets. I hardly know whether I am ready, since I have never experienced what comes next.”

“You’ll enjoy it. And - there’s no need for fear. I’ll take care of you.”

He’s worried he’s gone too far. That she might roll her eyes at him in disdain and tell him she can take care of herself, thank you very much. His wife is quite an independent sort, and he can’t imagine her wanting a gentleman fussing over her.

But she doesn’t argue. She smiles warmly up at him - and starts clutching at his hips, too, as if trying to drag him closer.

He can certainly agree with that idea. He gets his hips aligned over hers, guides his cock carefully inside. And - miracle of miracles - it slips straight in without trouble. She’s not too tight to take him, because he spent all that time with his mouth. He doesn’t trust anyone who says that deflowering a virgin will always be a little painful for the virgin.

Those people need to read a damn pamphlet.

She is quite a snug fit, though. Just the right amount of tight. So it is that he rocks his hips cautiously, wondering whether moving too fast might hurt her at this stage.

She slaps lightly at his left buttock, and he likes it.

“I am still not fragile, Bellamy. Do as you like - I trust I shall like it too.”

Oh. Very well, then. If he must. That’s an order he’ll gladly follow.

He starts moving faster, harder, taking longer strokes. He reaches in for another kiss, too - messier and more heated than the kisses they started out with. And even now, in this moment, his new wife is still incorrigibly herself. She’s grasping firmly at his shoulders, as if she would pull him closer. She’s taking something of a lead when it comes to kissing him, even - was she truly unkissed before tonight?

He reaches for her hair again. He’s never felt the need to gently stroke a woman’s hair whilst fucking her so firmly before now. But this is Clarke, so the firm and the gentle belong side-by-side. He combs his fingers over her scalp, cradles her head a moment, then runs his hand through the length of her hair.

But then he has to let go. He can’t be playing with hair any more. He needs to hold her close against him, rock his hips ever faster, chasing and chasing that edge of release.

He’s there. For one helpless second he’s worried he’s disappointed her, shooting his load before she’s had another climax. But she catches up to him just in time, clenching around him almost painfully as he spills inside her.

Then comes the silence. A breathless, watchful sort of waiting silence. Bellamy wonders which of them will be first to address what just happened.

It’s Clarke. Of course it’s Clarke. She always makes the first move between them, doesn’t she?

“It would appear we’re quite compatible in the bedroom.” She says, carefully light.

“I’d say more than compatible. We make a good couple, Mrs - ah - wife, dear.”

She laughs, buries the sound against his bare chest. “Go on, Bellamy. Just this once you may call me Mrs Blake. Or perhaps we should have a rule - I will accept Mrs Blake only after you have brought me to climax twice in the space of twenty minutes.”

“Very well, Mrs Blake. I’ll endeavour to do the same tomorrow night.” He tells her, feeling rather pleased with himself.

He falls asleep that night with Clarke still giggling joyfully in his arms.

…….

Going down to breakfast the following morning is a little uncomfortable. It’s less awkward than his first arrival in Clarke’s bedroom last night to be sure - the discomfort pales in comparison to that sense of invading her space, of feeling out of place.

But all the same, he’s about to eat toast with the parents of the woman he fucked last night. And they know full well that’s what he did, because that’s the purpose of a wedding night. So as he and Clarke stroll into the breakfast room he’s feeling rather unsure of what to say.

His new mother-in-law helps him out with that.

“Do you prefer toast or crumpets, Bellamy?” She asks, plain as day, with no fuss whatsoever.

Bellamy blinks, a little taken aback. “Toast, I suppose.” He tries.

“Really? Are you quite sure? Cook makes excellent crumpets.” Jake presses him.

Bellamy is honestly stunned. Does his new family truly operate like this? Have they genuinely welcomed him so seamlessly into the fold? No awkward chatter, no forced politeness - just an earnest invitation to accept a crumpet?

Well, then. There’s a challenge he can certainly rise to.

“I’ll try a crumpet if that’s what you recommend - if crumpets are the household speciality here at Griffin Manor.” He tries.

Clarke elbows him playfully. “Yes indeed - you are not truly part of the family until you’ve tried Cook’s crumpets.” She says, obviously teasing, before pressing on in a more serious voice. “Don’t let them bother you, Bellamy. The crumpets are not some rite of passage. Eat what you like.”

With that, she reaches for an egg. A singular boiled egg, and she eats it alone, without so much as a slice of toast to ease the way.

He’s never seen anyone eat a lone boiled egg before.

Too late, he realises he’s been staring. That he’s just spent the better part of a minute watching his wife demolish her strange breakfast.

He clears his throat, reaches for one of those crumpets, and tries satisfying his curiosity.

“Do you intend to eat anything else? That strikes me as quite a meagre breakfast.” He mutters to his wife.

She laughs, tosses her loose hair behind her shoulders. There’s something very wonderful about breakfast, he thinks - or at least about seeing his wife before she has put her hair up for the day.

“Yes. I’ll have some crumpets shortly. But I like to eat an egg first - and I wanted to make a point to you that, no matter what your foibles, you’re welcome here. It’s impossible to eat breakfast wrong in this household.”

He swallows suddenly, chokes a little on his crumpet. She keeps catching him by surprise, this wonderful woman. Her proposal was surprising enough, of course. But he’s more shocked than ever, now, at this evidence she truly wants him to feel at home.

…….

He spends the first week of his marriage following Jake Griffin around and trying to look useful by day, and bedding Clarke by night.

He thinks that’s much the right thing to do. He needs to look like a useful member of the family, prepared to run this estate one day when Clarke inherits it. And he certainly needs to put as much effort as possible into conceiving that heir with his wife. That was one of her conditions on entering this marriage, wasn’t it?

So it is that he applies himself, as diligently as possible, to his two joint causes.

“Coming out with me again, are you?” Jake asks, this morning, as he sees Bellamy lacing his boots by the door.

“I thought I should. We are fixing some fence in the southern fields, you said?”

“I am fixing some fence in the southern fields. You are your own man, and may do as you please.” Jake offers.

Bellamy frowns. That doesn’t sound right. He’s a bastard, a disgrace, finding a place in the world through Jake’s daughter’s pity and generosity. That doesn’t sound like being his own man, does it?

“I ought to help you.” He says firmly for good measure.

Jake actually rolls his eyes. “You’re under no obligation, Bellamy. If you’d rather spend some time with Clarke, you should do so. You are newlyweds, after all.”

Yes. That’s factually correct - they did marry recently. But Jake’s implication, that they are the more romantic and affectionate kind of newlyweds, is very wide of the mark. Bellamy flatters himself that Clarke seems to enjoy sharing a bed with him, and he knows she does consider them friends of a sort. But beyond that, he’s quite certain she has no particular wish to spend hours of every day in his company. They see each other at meals now - isn’t that enough?

He wouldn’t want to bore her, or become a chore or a bother to her. That’s the only way he can imagine making this situation even more mortifying.

…….

Clarke confronts him about it in the end. Of course she does - he should have realised she’d have a strong opinion about how he spends his time, just as she has a strong opinion about everything else in the world, it seems.

He’s not complaining, to be clear. He’s rather fond of her. Fond. You know - he likes her well enough, but he’s not about to kid himself this was ever a love match. He’s mostly doing quite well, these days, at convincing himself he never looked twice at her before his reputation was ruined.

Mostly.

Sometimes.

Fond.

He shakes himself, concentrates on the words she’s biting out in his general direction.

“Are you really going to survey the fields with my father again?” She asks, in an incredulous sort of tone. “You did the same thing yesterday. I believe our estate is not so large that it takes two men many days to take a look at the crops. I have kept my silence, while you were actually helping him with repairs and the like. Heaven knows he’s not getting any younger and he must have appreciated the spare pair of hands. But you don’t need to help him look at wheat. He managed perfectly well before you arrived, and God willing he has many years as master of this estate still ahead of him. I know you want to learn to manage the land one day but there is no need to actually do it all just yet.”

He waits a moment, watches her eyes blaze, checks that she really has finished speaking. That was quite the speech - as if this is something she feels strongly about, he thinks.

He clears his throat cautiously. He can’t afford to antagonise her. If she and her parents were to push for a divorce from him, with his poor reputation and dubious birth, he wouldn’t stand a chance. He’d be penniless and all alone once again.

“So - what would you have me spend all my days doing?” He asks carefully.

She throws her hands up in the air as if frustrated with him. “I hardly know. Whatever you used to do back at The Arbours, as a young man of leisure, but still learning your responsibilities all the while. Perhaps spend some time working, but then some time reading. Our library is smaller than that at the Arbours, but it is at your disposal. Perhaps you could ride for leisure and exercise, rather than only to follow my father at his work. And if you are truly bored out of your mind, you could spend some time trying to fall in love with me!”

He gapes at her, stunned. She would want him to spend some time trying to fall in love with her? He can scarcely believe it.

He’s still gathering his thoughts when she presses on, evidently reading the shocked look on his face.

“Why do you think I asked you to marry me?” She asks, sharp, almost dismissive. “Yes, it was partly because you were down on your luck, and I thought you would agree to my terms and conditions. But it was largely because I thought I could love you, one day, if only -”

“I could fall in love with you too.” He interrupts her urgently, finding his voice at last. “I always thought it. I have a memory that I used to think you might make a fine wife, some time ago, when you first came out.”

She smiles cautiously at him. “Your sister told me as much. The spring after I first came out, she said she’d overheard you talking to your stepfather about the future and saying you might like to marry someone like me.”

His turn to return her tentative smile with one of his own. “Then I believe we are onto a good thing. Tell me - what do you think of this idea? We could retire to our bedchamber, now, in the middle of the morning. I know it’s a little scandalous, but as we are newlyweds I think your parents would quite understand. And that should improve our odds of falling in love, don’t you think?”

He believes it’s the best idea he’s ever had, honestly. An intimate interlude in the middle of the day. That should strengthen the relationship between them, and also improve their odds of conceiving that heir which is so important to Clarke. So it is that he expects an overwhelmingly positive response to his suggestion.

He expects in vain.

“That’s not quite what I meant.” Clarke says, careful and a little cold.

Oh no. No. Has she not been enjoying their bedsport as much as he believed? Has she been acting her pleasure? Is he not doing such a good job of winning her love after all?

Why can he get nothing right, in this strange new home he must now call his own?

Before he can slump too far into despondency, Clarke keeps speaking. “I mean - I suppose it is a fine idea for another day, perhaps. I must own there is something thrilling about it. But I rather hoped we might simply spend some time together. We could get to know each other better. We could read or walk together, or laugh at my poor attempts at artwork, or -”

“I shall never laugh at your paintings.” He bites out, firm. She’s a quality artist, and if she were a man people would clamour to display her work. He won’t have her talking herself down like that.

She throws him a grateful smile.

He tries, once again, to take the initiative.

“A walk, then? It is a fine day to be out of doors. And now I have your father’s perspective on the land, perhaps I might ask for your thoughts. I find it mighty strange that I will be the master of this place, one day, when really we know it is more yours than mine.”

“It is ours.” She corrects him sharply. “And yes - I rather like that idea. Let’s take a walk around the estate together.”

It turns out to be a rather lovely walk, in the end. It’s an entirely different experience from viewing the estate on horseback with Jake. Instead, this is a tour of all the parts of the estate Clarke has a sentimental attachment to - the tree she used to climb when upset and in need of space and time to herself, the stream where she would dare to remove her stockings and take a paddle in summer.

It surprises Bellamy in so many ways. Quite apart from anything else, he never thought she had much sentimental attachment to anything. But he’s had cause to learn, lately, that there is more to her than meets the eye. She’s not just a beautiful lady with bold ideas. She has a heart under her tough exterior, too, however much she might like to hide it.

A heart which is threatening to fall in love with him, apparently.

They end up coming back to his original idea in time, too. She shows him the barn where she used to play with the farm cat, once upon a time, as a small child. And he kisses her, soft and slow, because this strikes him as an afternoon for tender kisses.

And then - well - one thing leads to another. Her petticoats ruch up, his head ducks down. He ends up pleasuring her with his mouth in an empty barn in the middle of the afternoon.

That’s not going to help them conceive an heir, to be sure. But he’s quite convinced it might help love to grow.

…….

He tries harder to be truly part of the family, after that. He tries to set aside his own negative image of himself as an object of derision or pity, tries to stop presuming that the Griffins want him to work with them or for them. He tries to remind himself, little and often, that they really do see him as a member of the family, a husband or son-in-law, and genuinely on a level footing with them. That wonderful day with Clarke has shown him that he’s not here as a servant to work the land, nor simply to donate his seed to the making of an heir.

He’s here because she chose him, and he should respect her decision by respecting himself a little more.

He starts with the library. Jake and Abby don’t have any particular interest in books, as far as he can tell. He sometimes sees Jake reference a volume about farm machinery, or Abby carry a herbal to the stillroom. But neither of them seems to indulge in reading for its own sake quite as Bellamy has always liked to do.

So it is that he makes the maintenance and improvement of the library his own personal project - his first big contribution to the Griffin estate, in fact.

He starts by assessing the books which the family already owns. He sorts through them, arranges them on the shelves in a more coherent and ordered fashion. He carefully cleans the leather binding of a few, and sets a couple of the most distressed aside for professional mending - or else selling to the local bookseller for salvage.

He’s on the third day of his self-imposed task when Clarke appears wielding a paintbrush.

“How are you getting on?” She asks, waving around the place with her brush.

He hopes that brush is clean. He won’t be impressed if she drips watercolours all over his clean books.

“Quite well, I believe. All the history is now in one place.”

“I should have known you’d start out with history.” She tells him, teasing.

He grins. “Yes. Quite. But I don’t mean to stop there. I mean to do the whole lot - even the books about planets and the like which are frankly of no interest to me. But I like to feel that I am doing something good for the family, but which is personal to me. I do love books - but more than anything, I love the idea that a well-maintained library will be an asset to our children, and to our children’s children.”

She nods. “You’re right. A good library can be a valuable part of a family’s property. One day perhaps our child will inherit all this work of yours.”

He looks up. Something in her tone has caught his interest. “Are you saying - you mean - you think you are with child?”

She smiles a fleeting smile, suddenly averts her gaze. “I’m not sure. It’s too early to say. My courses are only a little late, which could be all the stress and excitement of being newly married…”

“Or could be a sign that our babe is already growing.” He mutters, jumping to his feet, leaping across the room towards her.

He gets accidentally whacked on the elbow with that paintbrush, but that’s a price he’s willing to pay, as he folds her eagerly - but carefully - into his embrace.

“You know - there is one way to make it a more certain thing.” She whispers against his neck. “We could just… keep trying. There is no need to stop being intimate with one another the moment we suspect I might be with child. You could continue to bed me until I am so large as to make it impractical.”

“I’ll keep going even then.” He tells her without missing a beat. Not I could keep going or I might keep going, but a simple, straightforward statement of future facts. There’s no way he’s going to let a little thing like a rounded stomach keep him away from his wife. There are ways to manage such a thing, as long as Clarke is still interested in intimacy.

“And now? This morning? Are we to stand here hugging all day, or might we try something a little more heated to celebrate my tentative good news?” She suggests.

So that’s it. That’s the morning Bellamy lives out a long-held fantasy - one he never even dared admit to himself before this moment. But one that, he must now acknowledge, has been brewing deep inside his heart for a good couple of years, now.

That’s the morning Bellamy fucks Clarke up against a library bookcase, with one unfortunate volume tumbling to the floor in a rustle of pages at the very moment she falls apart and cries his name.

…….

By and large, though, Bellamy does manage not to use the bookshelves so ill, does manage not to drop any precious books in the midst of passion. In fact, he behaves himself so well that he only fucks his wife in the library about twice a week.

When Clarke isn’t distracting him, he takes his duty to care for the library quite seriously. He’s been thinking, too, of a few ways to improve the collection - that is, by adding to it, not just by rearranging things on the shelves.

So it is that he raises the subject at dinner one evening. He naturally intends to consult Clarke, because this is a financial decision, and he remembers well the contract she had him sign. But of course he wants to discuss it with Jake, too, who currently controls the purse strings - and ultimately he decides, in the spirit of marrying into a family full of revolutionary ladies, that it would be rude to exclude Abby from this conversation.

“I wonder whether we might discuss the library - in particular, the notion of adding some more volumes to the collection?” He says, beginning carefully with the words he has prepared. “I believe it’s important to maintain a modern and comprehensive library. Furthermore, a good library can add substantially to the value of the estate, and the standing of the family in the -”

“Yes, yes.” Jake waves a hand in his general direction. “You’re quite right - I have neglected the library too long, and it’s good to see you remedying my mistakes. I shall have a look through the accounts and see how much money I might set aside to you for the task.”

Bellamy blinks at him, finding the wind rather taken out of his sails. “Don’t you want to know which books I intend to purchase?”

“I’m quite sure I can trust you to exercise your judgement.”

“You - you mean to simply give me control of a sum of money? To spend it on whichever books I choose?”

“Certainly. We have already established I am no expert in the field.”

A beat of silence. Bellamy is feeling a little unsteady, honestly. He didn’t expect to win that so smoothly. He certainly didn’t expect his father-in-law to decide so easily to simply release some funds to him.

And most of all, he’s almost disappointed he didn’t get the chance to recite his arguments in favour of the books he is considering.

“Perhaps Bellamy was hoping to tell us about the books he is intending to purchase.”

That’s Clarke. Of course it’s Clarke. The perfect wife he should have proposed to years ago, quite frankly.

He spends the next ten minutes speaking with her about Wordsworth, while her parents look on in fond silence.

…….

At last he finds that he has run out of things to do in the library - or at least, things to do beyond sitting and enjoying the place with a good book. He has tidied the place, and spent his father-in-law’s money, and frankly he now finds the room as close to perfect as he has ever found a place before.

It feels like home. It feels like a place which is his, which he has some stake in, more than any place has felt like home since he learnt he was only a long-term lodger at The Arbours.

Now that he’s finished with his library project, he finds himself presented with options. He could spend his time sitting and reading, playing the part of a gentleman at leisure. He could follow Clarke around like a lost lamb all day, and try not to make it too obvious that he’s over half way to falling in love with her.

Or he could do something new. Another challenge, another project. He finds that he has more confidence for such things, these days.

So it is that, this evening, he presents another idea to his family over the dinner table. That went rather well for him last time.

“I have been wondering what to do with my time.” He begins, hesitant, almost halting. “It occurred to me that I was interested in working as a tutor, once upon a time. But I’m not sure I’d have much luck advertising for pupils locally - would anyone in Arkadia want their sons tutored by the scandalous bastard son of a foreign sailor?”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about that. The scandal has well and truly died down now you’re married.” Jake says easily, as if this is obvious.

Bellamy dares to smile a little at that. He even reaches for Clarke’s hand under the table - a silly, sentimental gesture perhaps, but she seems more than happy with it.

It’s Abby who solves the problem. Clarke clearly inherited that talent for strategic thinking from her.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t seek families from Arkadia as your first students. We can write to some family friends in Town and put word out that our son-in-law is a well-read gentleman looking for students. You and Clarke could run it as one of those enterprises where you take in lodger-scholars, educate them and raise them for a few months, then send them back to their families. Do you remember - the old vicar and his wife used to take in pupils?” She turns to prompt Clarke now.

But she’s already nodding. And Bellamy’s nodding, too, because he does remember the family in question. Tutoring in that way is a respectable, practical occupation, isn’t it? And Abby’s right - family friends from Town will have no reason to quibble about Bellamy’s past.

Clarke speaks up next. “I like this plan. Sooner or later, the families in the village will realise what they’re missing out on. Then we’ll be able to choose whether we prefer to keep taking in lodgers or whether you’d just like to tutor local children.” She suggests to Bellamy.

“I like this scheme.” He says easily. “Thank you, Abby - I’d be most grateful if you could write to some friends. But I’ll handle everything else. I’ll prepare a programme of study, and -”

“You’ll not prepare everything. We are doing this together.” Clarke insists hotly. “You can take care of the books, but I shall make up the spare rooms nicely, and arrange for tuition in music and painting if they require it, and -”

“Yes. Thank you. You’ve made your point.” He interrupts her playfully. “We will do this together. Quite right.”

All the same, though, he thinks she looks a little less than happy. Perhaps not uncomfortable so much as miffed about something.

He’ll ask about it later. But this is not the time or the place to press her for a difficult conversation.

He simply squeezes her hand once more, then lets go, and returns to eating his dinner.

…….

He doesn’t have to ask her about it, in the end. No sooner have they shut their bedroom door behind them than she is turning on him with a sharp frown.

“You could have told me.” She says, as if that explains anything.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You could have told me you had an ambition to work as a tutor. We could have set things in motion months ago. I thought - I must own, I thought we had a good marriage. I thought you would tell me if something was on your mind. But now I find that I was wrong.”

Oh. Well. That does explain her strange, sour look, actually.

“I wasn’t particularly hiding it from you - and it's not as if this is my life’s greatest dream, or anything so important to me. I simply thought it might be a productive way to pass the time and save some money for our future family.”

She nods slowly. “Very well. Then I am sorry for taking it so personally. I suppose I feared you were still hiding some part of yourself from me - or else still setting aside your own wishes out of that self-sacrificing nervousness you had when we first married.”

“No. Not that. I am trying hard to be more honest with you these days - and more honest with myself, too.” He tries for a tentative smile. “I didn’t mean to make you feel excluded from my hopes and dreams by starting the conversation with your parents present like that. I only thought this might be a matter for the whole family.”

“I like that - you really feel at home amongst the family these days.” She observes. It’s a statement, not a question, and that makes him happy. He loves the idea that it is so obvious he has found his place here at Griffin Manor.

A beat of silence. He wonders whether this is his moment to reach for her, to kiss her, to steer the conversation back towards safer, more familiar territory.

Or maybe it’s the moment for something else. The moment to veer hard in the direction of the unknown, to dare to tell her he might be a little in love with her, if that’s quite alright.

No. Apparently it’s time for a third option.

“I suppose… there is another reason I was so irrationally hurt.” Clarke offers, slow and careful. “Sorry. It’s so silly of me. But I - there’s something I need to tell you, something I want to tell you. And I was hurt that I was so excited to share this news with you, when I thought that meanwhile - you…”

“Clarke. You’re not making sense.” He tells her kindly. She’s usually the most sensible person he knows, so something serious must be afoot.

He’s beginning to suspect he knows what it is, actually.

“I went to see the midwife when I was in the village today.” She rushes the words out, urgent. “I’m with child. Definitely - or, as certain as anyone can be. We’re going to have a baby.”

He reaches for her at once, starts spinning her around and around the room in his arms. He’s overjoyed - having found a family where he truly has a place, now he’s going to be a father, too. And more than anything, he’s thrilled to be sharing this special moment, this new development with Clarke. He can imagine a child will only bring them closer.

But he’s disappointed, too - on one very specific and silly account.

He really did want to try telling her he loves her. He’s been wondering about mentioning that for a while, and tonight seemed like a good time. That serious conversation set them up for it nicely, he thinks.

But he’s clearly not going to say it now. If he said it now, it would sound like he only loved her for the child she’s carrying, only valued her as a broodmare - and nothing could be further from the truth. His love for her isn’t conditional on her fertility or the size of their family. This marriage might have started off build on terms and conditions, but that’s not what defines them now.

So it is that he kisses her deeply, and tucks those words beneath his tongue for another day.

…….

Of course, his excitement at his new family does not drown out his love for his old one. He still pops over to The Arbours quite often - and his sister calls on him and Clarke more often even than that. She’s the first person he shares the news with, when Clarke tells him she is expecting a child. She’s the person he laughs with, jokes with, discusses baby names with - although, of course, he knows it will be Clarke who will choose the name for their child.

Octavia is still the first person in his life outside of Griffin Manor.

But when he looks at Clarke, and imagines her belly swelling with their child, he sometimes thinks his whole world is inside the walls of this home.

…….

The first two students arrive within weeks. Bellamy is impressed, frankly - Abby’s friends must be adept at high-speed gossip.

But then he meets the two boys he’s been tasked with teaching and understands why their parents were in such a hurry to send them away to the country for their lessons.

“I hate reading all those poems about dead heroes.” The first lad, Monty, informs him robustly. “Botany is the only subject worth studying.”

Right. So presumably he never got on at all well with Latin and literature and all those other things a young gentleman-in-the-making is supposed to learn.

That’s not encouraging. Bellamy had quite a traditional course of study planned.

Then it gets worse.

“Will you teach us alchemy?” The other boy, Jasper, asks eagerly. “One time, at my last school, I set fire to the headmaster’s hat to see if it would turn to gold.”

Bellamy bites his lip a moment, considering his options. He could reprimand the boy, or tell him this place will not be like that school, that there is no headmaster here. He could give the response Jasper is presumably expecting - the response he must have from every other adult in his life - and tell him that setting fires is naughty.

Or he could try something different.

“Did it?” He asks mildly.

“What?” Jasper asks, abrupt and audibly shocked.

“Did it turn to gold? The hat?”

“Oh. Oh, that. No. No - just ashes. Most disappointing.”

Bellamy nods sagely. “I see. Well, then - if we are to learn anything about alchemy we will have to conduct our studies in a more careful and scientific fashion, hmm? Mrs Griffin is something of an expert in her stillroom remedies. Perhaps if you are very good she will allow you to learn from her the basics of making ointments and tinctures and the like. I understand that is the first step to becoming an expert alchemist.”

Jasper actually looks thrilled with that. “Do you think she might? If I do all my reading, might I be allowed to learn a tincture?” He asks, as if this is the greatest treat imaginable.

“What about me?” Monty pipes up urgently. “Can I help the gardener? I do so like to garden.”

“Perhaps in the afternoons, if we complete our lessons in the morning. I rather thought we might have our book learning in the mornings, and then spend the afternoon riding over the estate or learning more practical skills.” He suggests.

He didn’t think that at all, as it happens. He was very much intending to follow a rigorous academic curriculum and prepare these two boys to study at university. He was rather expecting to have scholars sent to him, not ruffians.

But there is something very likeable about these two ruffians. And he can quite understand the appeal of spending a morning with books, and an afternoon out of doors. That’s the sort of balance he quite likes to have in his own leisure time.

At just this moment Clarke hurries into the room. She was out in the village when the boys first arrived, and looks determined to make up for lost time. She doesn’t even wait for the maid to announce her as she bustles in.

“You must be Jasper and Monty. I’m Clarke.” She tells them warmly.

Monty looks unconvinced. “My ma says I’m to call you Mr and Mrs Blake. She says I’m to remember my proper manners.”

“And that’s very gentlemanly of you, I’m sure.” Clarke agrees smoothly. “But as we all are to live together here, and you’re staying some months, I think it would be fine to call us Clarke and Bellamy. We’re to be like a family this summer at least.”

“I don’t want us to be like a family.” Jasper says at once. “Mr father was awful angry with me when I burnt the headmaster’s hat. I don’t like family much.”

“Griffin Manor is a special place. We have a different kind of family here - all happiness and belonging. You can be whoever you like to be, as long as you don’t set fires.” Bellamy says, in a confidential sort of whisper.

“But as an alchemist of the future, it is important that I practise my art.” Jasper says neatly, as if it is a line he has had much cause to rehearse.

“I think it’s important that you learn the theory of correct alchemy first. Bellamy has recently improved our library here - perhaps you will find a book about alchemy there.”

“Do people write books about alchemy?” Monty asks, frowning. “Do people write books about things which are not long-dead heroes?”

“Yes they do. It sounds to me, young man, like you have been reading the wrong books.”

So it is that, within ten minutes of arriving at Griffin Manor, Monty Green - the child who hates reading - is clamouring to be shown the way to the library.

…….

By the end of his first full day teaching Jasper and Monty, Bellamy is exhausted.

He can only imagine how Clarke feels. She’s carrying a child and still spent the whole afternoon rushing around the garden with Monty. Bellamy’s a little in awe of her, honestly, by this point.

At last, the day is over. Bellamy is sprawling over the bed, waiting for Clarke to finish her night time routine, and trying not to think about the fact that they have to do just as much tomorrow - and every day after that for the foreseeable future.

But he finds himself sitting up when she enters the room, implicitly called to attention by her presence.

She looks gorgeous. Stunning. A little overwhelming. He always did notice her eyes, yes, but lately even her elbows are beautiful to him. That’s how love works, he supposes - even the most unremarkable parts of her are attractive to him, and he’s enthralled even when she’s at her most pale and exhausted.

She does look quite washed out. He had probably best not proposition her for sex tonight.

“Would you like me to rub your feet?” He offers instead. “I understand that’s a thing many ladies like when they are expecting.”

She is silent for a moment, evidently considering it. He has the distinct impression that she’s surprised by his offer.

“Or is there something else I might do for your comfort?” He offers instead.

She laughs lightly. “Is a wife not supposed to ask her husband that question? Am I not supposed to exist entirely for your comfort?”

He makes a point of tutting, and muttering something about her revolutionary tendencies.

She sighs as she lies down on her side of the bed. “If you truly are offering, a foot rub would be lovely. But I hardly feel I deserve such a fuss, while the babe is still so small. It is not as if I am carrying any extra weight in these early months.”

“Love isn’t about what you deserve.” He says instinctively. Before he can really consider the implication of his impulsive words.

Never mind. He’s said it now. Nothing to be done, no taking them back. He walks around the bed, starts rubbing softly at the arch of Clarke’s left foot.

“I do love you, you know.” She says softly. “And I happen to think you deserve all the love in the world - but yes, I take your point.”

He grins at her. After all these months growing comfortable with one another, it’s as if the words come as naturally to her as breath.

“I love you too.” He tells her easily. “I suspect you already realised as much.”

“It’s still good to hear it said in simple words.”

“And good to say it, too.”

Silence falls. A warm, comfortable sort of silence, broken only by the gentle swooshing sounds as he rubs his thumbs over Clarke’s tired feet.

She speaks up again. She’s not one to stay quiet, his Clarke.

“I hate to sound unappreciative, since you are being very kind to my feet. But such a conversation - and such a declaration - deserves something more celebratory than a foot rub, don’t you think?”

“What did you have in mind?” He asks, grinning wider than ever.

“Perhaps the two of us roaming naked through the fields and shouting to all the world that we are in love.” She suggests, laughing at herself. “But if I must be serious, and taking account of my condition, might we at least hold each other and perhaps fuck slowly?”

“That’s an oxymoron.” He tells her, because he does love a playful argument with his wife. “Fucking slowly. I’ll have you know I’m only capable of the most energetic and passionate bedsport.”

“Then tonight is the night we learn something new.”

He likes that. He’s been learning new things with this woman since she first showed up in that drawing room with her revolutionary tendencies and her list of terms, he thinks. There’s never a dull moment living with Clarke - even living a quiet, domestic sort of life with her.

He abandons her feet. He’ll give her that foot rub another day - he was rather pleasantly surprised by how much he enjoyed the gentle intimacy of that. But for today his wife needs something else from him, it seems, and he’s only too happy to oblige her.

There’s that - and there’s the fact he’s desperate to tear her nightgown off. Exhausted or not, he’s rather fond of her body and her soul.

He sits on the bed at her side, reaches in for a soft, slow kiss. She matches him, tangling her fingers firmly but somehow methodically in his hair. As if she’s made a study of his curls, in the months since they married, and is adding more notes to her file.

He wouldn't be surprised. She does have a habit of surprising him with unexpected files.

“How do you want to do this?” He murmurs against her lips. “If you’re tired, I can do all the work.”

“Don’t mind. I just want to be close to you.” She whispers straight back at him.

He thinks about it for scarcely a second, without breaking the kiss. Then all at once, he’s decided. He’s sitting right on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, and lifting Clarke clean onto his lap.

She comes along with a little squeak of pleased surprise.

He sets her down, her legs straddling his. He’s proud of having managed it so smoothly, honestly. She’s not particularly heavy, and he’s quite strong, but lifting a human being onto his lap is still no mean effort. He thinks he managed to make it look quite effortless, though, and indeed Clarke is sighing as if it’s the most romantic gesture she has ever known.

That’s good. He does pride himself on being a good husband to her.

He waits for her to settle herself, to tug their nightclothes aside, to start setting a cautious rhythm. He’s learnt not to set the pace too much in the early stages - she warms up to sex slower than he does, and that’s perfectly fine. He can be patient.

She’s worth waiting for.

Normally he entertains himself while she’s getting in the mood by pleasuring her with his mouth. That kills two birds with one stone, as far as he can tell. But today he’s content simply to sit here and hold her while she fidgets on his lap, trying to get comfortable and start chasing what she needs, pressing kisses to his neck all the while.

Eventually she settles into more of a rhythm. A brisker pace, with long, regular strokes of her cunt along the length of him. He helps her along as best he can with his hands over her hips, with messy, eager kisses to encourage her along the way.

And then he tries something newer, more dangerous. More perfect.

“Love you.” He gasps against her lips. “Love you so much. You feel so good, sweetheart.”

“Love you too.” She passes the words straight back to him. Sensible, pragmatic Clarke - who proposed to him with a stack of paperwork - writhes in his arms and speaks to him of love.

It’s almost more than he can bear. The charged atmosphere, the sentimental words, the long, torturous strokes along his cock.

And what does it matter? What does it matter if this is too much for him, if he falls apart first tonight? What does it matter if he lets her see just how much she gets to him - how she makes him weak yet strong, all at the same time?

He lets go. He relaxes utterly, sighs in relief as he spills his load inside of her.

She keeps going, just a few seconds more. She keeps grinding against his lap, just on the edge of discomfort now he’s softening inside of her.

She’s there. She’s clenching around him, sagging in his arms. She’s nuzzling into his neck, too, and whispering a wealth of sentimental nonsense about how deeply she loves him.

That’s something he never used to dare to dream of, when he was younger, when he had her name on his mental list of prospective brides.

They keep sitting there, together, for a long time after they are done. Simply breathing in time, holding each other, enjoying the moment.

Bellamy knows he ought to call things to a close and suggest they go to sleep. Clarke must be utterly spent. But she’s the sensible one out of the two of them, isn’t she? So he decides he’s not going to call it a night until she does.

He’s going to take this precious chance to say something important instead.

“Thank you.” He murmurs against the delicate shell of her ear. “Thank you so much for appearing in my drawing room with those papers that day. For a long time I resented what happened, with all that slander and lying in the village. But now I find myself very grateful it led me to you.”

“I’m sure we’d have found our way to each other anyway.” She says, serious and thoughtful. “You did tell me you’d already thought of it. And I certainly found myself hoping to marry you more than once over the years.”

“Yes. Perhaps we would.”

“All the same, I suppose I am pleased it has helped you to make something positive out of the shameful way people treated you in the village. I don’t think I have ever said it in so many words, but I am so very sorry that happened to you.”

He laughs a dry laugh. She didn’t need to say it outright - it’s been plain to see in her every action since the day she offered him marriage, or even long before. She still kept socialising with his sister when his reputation was ruined, after all.

He tries for a different angle instead. “I try to tell myself it’s a good thing people believed the young ladies.” He says carefully. “All too often, I know a man forces himself on a lady and she takes the blame. It is her reputation which suffers. But - I can’t help but ask myself whether anyone would have believed the girls if I was a white man of legitimate, noble birth.”

“You have it exactly. These people all have some order of precedence in their minds, don’t they? Men above women, white above all else, and heaven help you if your parents were unmarried. It disgusts me.” She catches herself growing sharp, he thinks, as she gives way into a stiff laugh. “Sorry - that’ll be my revolutionary tendencies getting out of control again.”

He laughs. Clarke is the most controlled and sensible person he knows. But she’s learned his dangerous habit of joking about serious matters, and he must admit he rather likes it. If they can’t change the world all at once, just the two of them, at least they can build a happy home, and keep their heads up high, and keep doing what they can.

He lifts her up, sets her down onto the bed. He’d better let her get some sleep. She’s going to be too busy taking care of those two odd boys who have joined their household to take care of herself, he fears.

…….

As the days turn to weeks, Bellamy does wonder about writing to the Greens and the Jordans to ask their permission for the rather alternative curriculum he is teaching their sons.

He decides against it in the end. No sense in giving them the chance to say no. Since the scandal he caused through no fault of his own, and since Clarke helped him to build himself back up again, he’s decided he doesn’t have much time to spare for people who would interfere in his life when he’s behaving perfectly harmlessly.

Besides which, he thinks he’s still taught the boys more than enough Latin and Arithmetic to satisfy their parents - and with no hats burned along the way. So what does it matter if they spend their afternoons in the garden or the stillroom or else riding around the estate? Bellamy is quite convinced these things are all part of raising the boys as young men ready to run their own estates, one day.

The two boys have surprised themselves - and Bellamy and Clarke - by taking wider interests than the botany and alchemy they declared on their arrival. Monty paints landscapes, now, and if he does labour over the trees with more attention than most artists, that’s only to be expected.

The real shock is Jasper. He’s turned into quite the young romantic artist, learning to play the piano with Octavia who stops by to teach him lessons. He’s also discovered a passion for Wordsworth, and even started writing his own poetry.

It’s not clear whether he’s pining for some childhood sweetheart who disappointed him, or whether he’s taken a liking to Octavia. Either way, he now considers himself a very mature and tasteful young gentleman - and no hats have been harmed in the process.

In short, Bellamy and Clarke’s tutoring enterprise is a success.

The biggest success of all? There’s nothing quite like collaborating on such a project to bring a couple closer together, it turns out. Bellamy flatters himself that he has learnt to read exactly the expression on Clarke’s face which tells him she is at her wit’s end with Monty’s incessant curiosity and stands in need of rescue. He, in turn, has developed a particular furtive smile he throws in her direction whenever he cannot stand to hear another word of Wordsworth.

And the best moments of all? The moments when their patience is still intact, when the four of them are out on some lark together - a picnic, or a riding lesson, or else a tour of the estate farmland which falls away into a childish game of tag.

Even when her condition starts to show, Clarke is still a rather competitive player.

…….

Jasper and Monty are due to go home at the end of the summer.

They promise they’ll be back next year, for the healthy country air and the eclectic education. Jasper’s father has already paid Bellamy an advance on the fees for next year - he’s that impressed with the change in his son’s attitude.

But for this year, the summer is nearly over. And so it is that Bellamy and Clarke arrange to take the two boys on a day trip - on last hurrah before they’re summoned back to Town.

The adventure is nothing special, really. Just a picnic in the local woods, then a game of hide and seek between the trees. Bellamy plays along for a few rounds, then retires gracefully from the game to sit with his wife. She’s rather obviously with child, at this point, and not at all into running around all over the place any more.

“You’ve taken to this well.” She says warmly, with a nod at the two boys playing.

“We both have.” He counters easily. “I think we’ll be even better when the little one is our own, though. I’ll be sorry to see these two leave, but I’m eager to meet our own new arrival.”

“They’ll be back before we’ve had time to miss them. Next spring isn’t so far away. Before you know it, they’ll be jumping out from behind doors and scaring us senseless again. Imagine it - these two and a baby to contend with at the same time.”

“We’ll find a way.” He says, brim full of confidence. “I’m quite certain we can do anything we put our minds to, you and I.”

She laughs fondly, leans right up against his side. She even reaches up for a fleeting kiss, apparently heedless of the fact they’re out in public.

He never dreamed it would be this way. When Clarke presented that list of terms to him, early in the year, he didn’t imagine they’d arrive here, and certainly not so soon. January’s Bellamy would have fainted in shock, he’s sure of it, at the idea of strait-laced Clarke snatching public kisses from him.

She relaxes back into his embrace, as he wraps his arms snug around her.

“This has certainly turned out better than I could have imagined.” He muses.

She laughs. “What - tutoring delinquent boys? Marrying me? Starting a family? Any and all of the above?”

“That last. Definitely. I - I am content, Clarke. Thank you for that. I never thought I would be until you turned up and proposed to me.”

“I did not propose. I offered you a deal.” She corrects him with a pert laugh.

“You proposed. You practically begged me.” He teases her.

“Did not.”

“Did too. And I am so deeply grateful for it. I love this life - books and children and a wonderful wife.”

She laughs. “Flatterer. I love you too, husband.”

“I love you more.”

He’s not trying to be competitive, not trying to start a row. He means it as the plain and honest truth. He loves Clarke so deeply he thinks he’s invented a new level of love, frankly. He’s never so much as witnessed love like this before.

However much she loves him, he’s quite certain he loves her double.

…….

Jasper and Monty have been gone scarcely twenty-four hours when there’s a most unexpected caller at Griffin Manor.

“Mr Stirling wants to speak to you, Mr Blake.” A maid informs him, poking her head around the door of the library.

He frowns, looks up and meets Clarke’s eye where she sits in the neighbouring chair. “Whatever for?”

“He says it’s about the school, Sir. About your tutoring.”

“Then he must talk to Clarke as well. Show him in here, if you would, please, Hill.”

So it is that Mr Stirling walks in. He shuffles his feet, stares carefully at the rug, then drags his gaze to a perfectly uninspiring bookshelf instead.

Bellamy feels quite safe in judging it as uninspiring. He is master of this library, and he knows that the books Mr Stirling is currently feigning fascination with are actually a selection of old account books.

“Mr Stirling - how can we help you? Won’t you take a seat?” Bellamy tries.

Mr Stirling sits down. He sits carefully, slowly, and then starts turning his fine gloves in his hands.

Bellamy frowns. The Stirlings are one of the more wealthy families locally. They’re one of the families which most scorned him when he was ruined, too. So why this visit now?

“Can we help you with something, Mr Stirling?” Clarke prompts him again.

He clears his throat. “I only wanted to say how happy I am that your tutoring has taken off so well. I - ah - that’s a jolly good thing, isn’t it? Some well-earned success. It has come to my attention that we judged you too hastily last year, Mr Blake, and I am heartily sorry for it. You’re quite the asset to our little community hereabouts.”

Bellamy frowns at him, eyes narrowed. He doesn’t buy it. He can’t imagine the man came here only to congratulate Bellamy on his improved fortunes and offer him that strange apology.

“Was there something else you wanted?” He asks, with no pretence of polite chitchat.

“Well - yes - as a matter of fact… It’s about my boy John. We sent him away to school, but he’s not suited to it at all - there’s been some trouble with the other boys… To cut a long story short, we wondered whether you might take him on as a pupil. Now that your lodgers are gone, might you have the time? We can’t afford Town prices, but we’ll do our best, Mr Blake. We’d be very grateful.”

Bellamy frowns, considers the situation for a moment. He looks over to seek Clarke’s opinion, but finds her face carefully blank.

Of course. She’s leaving it to him to make the decision. Entirely his choice - does he want to accept that apology, so clearly made today only because Mr Stirling wants his help, or does he want to tell this man to take his worthless words home with him?

He reflects on it for a moment. He doesn’t dive into a decision heart-first - he considers his options, because his wife has taught him a thing or two about making tactical choices at times like this.

He’ll do it. He’ll teach the boy. No sense in holding the child responsible for the unkind actions of the parents. And anyway - there’s a kind of strength in showing forgiveness and moving on, isn’t there?

He wants his child to grow up in a house filled with forgiveness. That’s what decides it, in the end. He doesn’t want his baby born into a home still tinged with bitterness over Bellamy’s bad luck. He wants to look towards the future with a smile on his face and teach his child to grow up smiling, too.

“We’ll take the lad on.” Bellamy says, confident but clipped. “I have a few terms, of course. I’ll send you some papers to sign before your John starts his lessons. Nothing too controversial - just to state that you agree with our intended curriculum. We’ll have him at his books in the mornings, and he can spend the afternoons painting or in the stillroom, or else out of doors with us.”

“Painting?” Mr Stirling appears shocked. “The stillroom?”

“Yes. That’s one of the terms, in fact - my judgement will be final in all matters regarding your son’s studies. He can learn what my wife and I teach, or you can send him elsewhere. That’s your only choice.”

A pause. A beat of delicious silence. Bellamy relishes the moment, savouring the taste of victory. It’s a victory which is all the sweeter because it comes with no vengeance, only forgiveness. No one has lost, here, so that he might win. The Stirling family are winning, too, even if Mr Stirling is still coming to realise as much.

This is, in Bellamy’s opinion, what counts as a successful morning.

…….

The first child of Bellamy and Clarke Blake is born in the depths of winter, a ray of sunshine to light up the dark.

It’s a long labour, and Bellamy finds himself quite terrified despite the frequent updates that Clarke is quite well. In the end he abandons all semblance of propriety and invites himself into the delivery room, holding his wife’s hand for the last couple of hours of her labour.

At last it’s done. At last there is another Blake in the world - squealing and wriggling, every bit as energetic as his parents.

“A boy! A son and heir for you, sir!” The midwife declares, putting the precious bundle into Bellamy’s arms.

Bellamy doesn’t much care that it’s a boy. Succession and inheritance are more trouble than they’re worth - he’s learnt that over the last couple of years. But he supposes it’s reassuring, at least, to know he’ll always have a home at Griffin Manor even if something were to happen to Clarke. He knows that’s been her dearest wish since the earliest days of their marriage, even though he’s determined that nothing will happen to her on his watch.

“Do you have a name chosen already?” The midwife asks.

Bellamy wants to ask the kind, well-intentioned woman to butt out. Clarke must choose the name - that’s one of the terms, and he intends to hold to it, even though their marriage is defined more by love than by rules, these days. But she looks exhausted, frankly, and he doesn’t want to press her to name the newborn quite yet. Surely it will wait for tomorrow?

No. Apparently it will not. Evidently his wife is still the impatient Clarke he knows and loves, even at the end of a full day in labour.

“Yes. Of course - I have the perfect name ready for him. Augustus, or Gus amongst family.” Clarke rattles off, without missing a beat.

Bellamy stares at her, stunned.

For fully three seconds he does nothing but stare - at his wife, at his son, then back again.

At last, he manages to clear his throat. “Augustus?” He asks. Just that. Just a single, hopeful word.

“Yes. That is the name you would have chosen, isn’t it?” She asks, as if checking. “I mean - I suppose I did not choose it because you would choose it. I am still exercising my right to name our son. It’s more that I earnestly like the name because it holds such meaning for you.”

He blinks at her, heart in his mouth.

He understands, now. Suddenly, in this moment, with his son in his arms, he finds that he comprehends love perfectly.

Love is not about him loving Clarke more, because love cannot be measured or compared. It’s not about what he deserves, not about exchange or orders of magnitude, or anything so logical at all. He can let go, at last, of those last destructive shreds of his worries about worthiness and ruin.

Love just… is. It’s in the sound of Clarke’s startled laugh, the light that flashes in her eyes. It’s in the warmth of his son in his arms and the scent of hard labour in the air.

And most importantly, love exists in the space within them and in between them. Love fills this house, and fills his heart full to overflowing, too.

Love is everywhere, since he married Clarke. And that’s the way it should be.