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Falling asleep in a moving train carriage is something of a mission, even with the bed. That's not to say it's not a good bed, because it is, which is to be expected given that this whole sleeper car thing is new and the only people who can afford to pay for it are the wealthy. Not people the train company wants to get into the bad books of, then.
The compartment, one of twenty in this carriage, had been normal enough, if a bit bulky and therefore short of space, when Tewksbury and Enola went to the restaurant car for dinner. There were a number of little tables covered in white cloth and laid with cutlery and napkins, one of which bore a neatly printed card that read The Marquess & Marchioness of Basilwether and there they'd sat and had pea soup and braised duck with potato dumplings, followed by treacle tart for Enola and spotted dick for Tewksbury, both served with a generous helping of custard.
There had been little talking, each of them as tired as the other after a long and emotional day. The wedding mid-morning, an hour by brougham to the train station, several more hours to London, and finally the current train taking them all the way north. It's late autumn, the night coming on quickly and temperatures dropping fast, because Enola had refused to wait until spring, let alone summer, and she wanted a tour of Scotland for their honeymoon. Tewksbury didn't understand the basis of her desire at all but he'd agreed on the condition they finish up for a fortnight in France.
Quiet though it was, dinner was a very pleasant affair. The other guests weren't overly noisy, the twilit countryside provided an interesting site to see as it sped past the long windows, and Tewksbury had known Enola long enough to know she was basking in his company as much as he was in hers.
They'd returned to their compartment perhaps an hour and a half after they left it, by which point the porters had been through and converted the small room into a spacious double bed, thick curtains drawn across the window to keep the heat in and covered wall lamps lit. A sliver of space was left at the foot of the bed for the occupants to stand and change into nightclothes.
Even with the latch on the door and the curtains, Tewksbury had felt rather uncomfortable to be getting out of his daywear in such a public area. He'd done it, however, and quickly, too, because Enola had only stepped out to use the lavatory and wash her face and he thought he might combust with mortification if she came upon him half-dressed. They'd swapped, then, she staying to change and he to relieve himself.
Despite the heat generated by steam being pumped through hoses down the length of the carriage, it was still cool. They were not far from winter, after all, and hurtling north to Scotland at somewhere between forty and fifty miles an hour. So Enola kept her drawers on under her long-sleeved nightdress and Tewksbury was thankful that his valet had thought to pack the woollen pyjamas rather than the cotton ones. Pyjamas were not quite new to Britain but they were certainly new to being fashionable and he was still getting used to wearing loose trousers and a buttoned shirt rather than a nightshirt.
Enola had blown out the lamps while Tewksbury made sure the hot water bottles were at the end of the bed under the quilt to keep their feet warm and then in the darkness they'd both slipped under the covers and lain down.
Now, Tewksbury is flat on his back, staring at the ceiling dimly illuminated by light seeping in around the edges of the compartment door's curtains. The car rattles and rumbles around him, rocking gently, and he wonders if this is what it's like to sleep on a ship in the embrace of the sea. The mattress is firm, the blankets are soft, the quilt is a reassuring weight, and the pillow is suitably stuffed, but he's certain he will not be sleeping soon.
It occurs to him that this may have something to do with the fact that it is his first night sharing a bed with his wife.
As of half past ten this morning, Enola Holmes is Lady Basilwether, the Marchioness of Basilwether and Viscountess Tewksbury, though the latter is a subsidiary title and so not generally listed.
She is Tewksbury's wife.
After the whiplash of a five-year courtship and a five-month engagement, this new reality has been taking its time sinking in but he thinks it might be happening right now.
'I can hear you thinking from here, Tewksbury,' Enola says suddenly, just above a whisper.
His palms sweat and his heart pounds hard against his ribs. He'll be fine in a minute. Or three.
'Tewky?'
It's the tone that catches his attention. Softer than usual, tilting upward with an uncertain lilt.
'Sorry,' he says, drawing on half a decade and more of public speaking experience to keep his voice even. 'It's been –' He pauses. What? What has it been? 'It's been a rather long day,' he finishes lamely.
'I am perfectly aware of how long the day has been,' Enola replies pertly, and he's happy he found the right thing to say to get her to relax but there's still something amiss. 'I was with you for just about every minute of it.'
Tewksbury mulls over this feeling and then he says, 'So why are you thinking so loudly?' Because she is, and that means something's bothering her, which is a concerning prospect on their first night as husband and wife.
There's a startled pause, like Enola hadn't expected him to call her out on it. After a moment, she says very quietly, 'We're married now.'
Well, yes, and given the minor internal uproar Tewksbury is still getting over concerning exactly that, he's prepared to accept that that is the whole of it. But then she goes on.
'We have marital duties that we are required to undertake.'
It takes Tewksbury an embarrassingly long second to catch on.
'Oh!' he exclaims, far too loudly, and flushes, and rolls up onto his elbow so he can look over at her more easily.
Enola stares up at him, still on her back, her expression too stiff to be neutral and her eyes too wide to be unaffected. Her arms lie on top of the quilt and she's twisting the ring on the fourth finger of her left hand, the ring Tewksbury placed there nearly twelve hours ago.
'I wasn't – it doesn't have to – not tonight,' he says with much less eloquence than he typically manages. He takes a breath and tries again. 'We're on a public train, for starters, but most importantly, we haven't talked about it yet.'
It's true. They'd had a great many conversations about Enola's long list of sticking points before Tewksbury dared propose to her but none of them had concerned this particular topic. He's sworn on everything he holds dear that he will never use his position as her husband to force her to do something she does not wish to do, and she must believe him because she accepted his proposal and went through with the wedding with an enthusiasm that might border on indecent, among polite circles. But marital duties is very much its own kettle of fish.
'I'm not going to – to spring upon you like some monster,' Tewksbury says, cringing a little at the hideousness of the idea. 'I am who I have always been. I'm still the man I was before you agreed to marry me.'
He doesn't know how else to convince her of his sincerity but, fortunately, that seems to be enough. Enola's face softens, no longer tight and wary, and she pushes up onto her elbows so they are at a similar height and touches his cheek with her fingertips, a fleeting caress that he wants her to linger over.
'Thank you,' she says seriously, and then she curls her fingers in his collar to keep herself steady and kisses him.
Enola has kissed him many times and Tewksbury has kissed her a fair few times, usually for no more than a heartbeat or two, but this one lasts five heartbeats at least, just long enough to get his recently calmed down pulse back up to dangerous speeds.
She leans back with a pleased, cheeky little smile visible even in the gloom and says, 'We can go to sleep now, husband.'
Tewksbury splutters weakly but is rewarded when he lies back down by Enola shuffling closer and slinging an arm over his waist, her head tucked in the crook of his neck.
It still takes a while for him to calm his thoughts enough for sleep but, all in all, not a bad end to his wedding day.
Scotland is every bit as cold and wet and all-round miserable as Tewksbury expected but Enola has a marvellous time and drags him out of their fire-warmed lodgings to hurl snowballs at each other and explore all that Glasgow and Paisley and Stirling and Edinburgh have to offer. They drink hot toddies every evening, which has the interesting effect of causing Enola to become slightly inebriated from the whisky, and eat far too much shortbread and black bun to be considered healthy.
There aren't much in the way of gardens on show, unsurprisingly, so Tewksbury amuses himself by luring Enola into having opinions on jewellery and gloves and shoes while he hunts for possible presents to take back home to Mother. Uncle Whimbrel is easy enough – there is a particular brand of snuff far more prevalent in Edinburgh than London that he prefers for his pipe. And because he must of course get something for Enola herself, Tewksbury waits until she's suitably distracted investigating daily newspapers to buy a book that breaks down the intricacies of many of Britain's wide variety of accents. Perhaps he'll give it to her for Christmas.
The subject of the conversation on the train is not brought up again for the better part of their intended stay in Scotland, when December is little more than a week away. Tewksbury isn't worried about the delay in discussion and actual, well, consummation. His uncle had informed him, in the run up to the wedding when it was deemed suitable for such information to be shared, that some couples spend most of the honeymoon simply getting to know each other before undertaking marital duties, as Enola put it.
Besides, Tewksbury and Enola have ever marched to the beat of their own drum. They certainly know one another a lot better than most newlyweds. He has no plan to bring up the topic again before she does and she can take as long as she likes, as far as Tewksbury is concerned. That she allows him to hold her hand in the crook of his arm when they walk and to share her bed in the literal sense and to kiss her chastely – or not so chastely, as the mood takes them – is honour enough from this fiery young woman who is as wild as she was at sixteen, only a little better at disguising it now.
It's well after supper on one of their last nights in Edinburgh, crisp snowflakes drifting down outside, though they are unlikely to stick yet, and bitter northerlies rattling the windows behind the heavy drapes. Tewksbury is absently trawling the paper, sprawled less elegantly than usual in his armchair by the roaring fire, while Enola sits opposite him, her feet tucked under her and a letter from Edith in her lap. Empty mugs sit on the side tables at their elbows and the smells of sugar and rich chocolate linger in the air.
'Tewksbury,' Enola says thoughtfully, because apparently she will be damned to hell if she ever uses his first name.
He looks up from the fervent gossip filling the social pages. 'Mm?'
'I've been thinking.'
It's unusual for her to be anything less than completely forthright and Tewksbury resists the temptation of low-hanging fruit – don't hurt your head or something equally witty – to ask, 'What about?'
'Marital duties.'
That's the last answer he might've been expecting and he sits up straighter in his chair, folding up the newspaper and setting it by his mug. 'Oh?' At least she looks much more at ease saying the words than she did last time.
'Well, it had to happen sometime,' Enola says, not quite defensively.
Her grip on Edith's letter tightens a bit and Tewksbury wonders if something was asked or said. He doesn't particularly like that idea but it seems unlikely that Edith of all people would be pressuring Enola about this so he holds his tongue.
'I thought it might be prudent for us to make an initial foray,' she says, and Tewksbury nearly chokes on his tongue.
'Really?' He coughs, clearing his throat. 'To what... extent?'
'My understanding,' Enola replies, blithely oblivious to his fluster, 'is that the parties involved are required to disrobe entirely. That sounds like a bit much to jump into all at once, frankly, so we could experiment with partial undressing.'
Tewksbury has absolutely no idea where this blunt confidence has come from and he wishes he could borrow some. He appears to have regressed to his sixteen-year-old self, which is both frustrating and slightly embarrassing.
'I see,' is all he manages.
Enola tucks her letter back in its envelope and puts it on her side table before returning that searingly intent gaze to him. She looks determined and full of conviction and only very minorly trepidatious. 'We should start with what we're comfortable and familiar with. So, kissing. That's how this usually goes, isn't it?'
Tewksbury really wants to know what Edith wrote to Enola. He's also regretting having drunk that hot chocolate so quickly because his stomach is currently twisting itself into about nineteen separate knots. He supposes he should be happy that Enola trusts him enough to tackle this in such a direct fashion and he probably will be, when he can think again. Presently his brain seems to be unresponsive.
'Tewky? What do you think?'
There's that whisper of uncertainty again and it's all Tewksbury needs to pick himself up by his bootstraps and say, 'You've given this a lot of thought. The idea of a first foray –' he nearly, nearly stumbles – 'sounds like a wise one. When would you like to conduct this experiment?'
Enola brightens. 'No time like the present!'
'Right. Of course.' Tewksbury resigns himself to imminent heart failure. 'Do you want, ah, the bedroom?'
'Unnecessary,' Enola says, and she rises to her feet and throws the sitting room door latch. Then she crosses the room to Tewksbury's armchair and sits in his lap and plucks at his cravat. 'I think this should come off first, don't you?'
It couldn't really be said that Tewksbury is thinking coherently enough anymore to pass a judgement on that but he figures she knows what she's talking about so he takes off the cravat.
And they go from there.
It is rather later in the evening when the experiment comes to an end. They're both flushed rosy and well-kissed, and there's a substantial amount of clothing on the floor, leaving Enola in only her chemise and stockings and Tewksbury has nothing on his upper half at all. Temperatures run high with residual enthusiasm and fast-fading bashfulness.
A successful initial foray, they agree.
December starts in France for Tewksbury and Enola. The ferry crossing was delayed by a day due to inclement weather and after six hours of swaying and rolling across the Channel from Dover to Calais, they're both feeling more seasick than they'd like to admit. It's another overnight trip by train from Calais to Paris, on which they are served bisque as the hors d'oeuvre, chicken chasseur for the main course, and pungent camembert with fresh bread and chocolate mousse as the cheese and dessert courses, which does well to cheer them both up.
They go to sleep on separate sides of the bed, hands interlinked beneath the quilt, and wake with Enola curled into a ball in the middle and Tewksbury loosely wrapped around her. It's no longer an unfamiliar experience and therefore no longer quite as startling as it was in the beginning.
The train reaches Paris mid-morning, which gives them just enough time to travel to hotel Tewksbury has arranged for them to stay at before lunch. The hotel is, of course, spectacularly grand. As a wealthy, recently-wed member of British nobility, there are certain standards Tewksbury has to live up to and a certain image he has to cultivate. After all, he, and by extension Enola, too, are effectively acting as informal ambassadors and given the long-standing rivalry on either side of the Channel, it really wouldn't do to let their side down.
Explaining this in a way that Enola might appreciate instead of scoffing at takes some creative thinking on Tewksbury's part, but if nothing else she seems to accept that it's important to him that their public image here is a little sharper than back home. So, upon their arrival to their expansive hotel suite, Enola throws open her suitcases and drags out a profusion of fabric and fur and swears a bit as she tries to get out of her travelling clothes faster than they were intended to be got out of. Tewksbury steps in to offer a willing, if generally clueless, hand, and together they get Enola redressed with minimal cursing.
When she steps away to do her hair, Tewksbury gets a good look at the new outfit and feels a dual burst of pride and gratitude, the latter to both Enola and his mother, who is no doubt the reason Enola has such a dress. It's a magnificent piece made of a plum-coloured silk-wool blend, the skirt long and heavy and hemmed with gold detailing, a small bustle in the back creating elegant lines down to floor. The bodice's stiffened collar and cuffs are trimmed with similar embroidery, a panel of the gold threadwork extending from the collar to the waist where it disappears behind a wide black belt with an ornate gold clasp.
The whole ensemble screams taste and money, which was the plan, but admittedly Tewksbury's thinking has slid over to simply how good it all looks on Enola. She has her hair up in a neat chignon and pins a hat decorated with feathers and black trim on top, and the expression of sheer bloody-minded focus on her face as she bends pins, hat, and hair to her will is enough to make Tewksbury a little weak at the knees. He can't bring himself to mind. She's his wife, after all.
Tewksbury fetches Enola her gloves, dainty tan-coloured things, as she sweeps an elbow-length cape lined with luxurious black fur and a high collar around herself and fastens the discreet catches. 'I admit,' he says, passing her the gloves one at a time, 'you are a far finer sight in this than breeches.'
Enola whacks him with the second glove, but her eyes are sparkling as she protests, 'What sort of a compliment is that? To think, I put on the fanciest dress I could find and my own husband compares it to breeches.'
He grins and slips his hands in his pockets. 'It is a truthful compliment, is what it is, my dear wife.'
As happens every time he says the magic word, Enola simultaneously goes slightly pink and preens just a tiny bit. 'Well, you will have to do much better than that if you mean to impress me.' She scoops up her pitch-black muff, muttering to herself, 'Breeches, really.'
Tewksbury dons his Chesterfield coat and top hat, his own gloves in his pocket, and waits for her to glance over at him before he says as sincerely as he can manage, 'You look beautiful, Enola. My mother herself could not have picked a more splendid outfit.'
Right on cue, Enola flushes a darker pink and she lets her smile break through, fond and pleased. 'Enough for the hoity-toity of Paris?'
'Absolutely,' Tewksbury replies, heartfelt, and crosses the room to get the door for her. 'Are you ready to lunch?'
'Darling,' Enola says, stretching up to kiss his cheek as she passes him, 'I've been ready for hours.'
Lunch goes well and, more importantly, tastes good. Tewksbury was a shade nervous about what Enola's reaction to the finest of French cuisine would be. By no means is she a fussy eater but she's also not travelled outside of Britain until now and there are some marked differences between the average English and French palates. Happily, his concerns were for nought and Enola even tells their waiter in very precisely accented French to give her compliments to the chef after they've both finished and greatly enjoyed their whipped cream-stuffed profiteroles.
The rest of the afternoon is given over to visiting the Eiffel Tower, the tallest man-made structure in the world and only very recently completed. Tewksbury had been utterly intrigued by the Tower when he'd read about its construction and showcase at the Paris Universal Exposition last year but he'd not visited then, partly because he'd been frightfully busy in the House of Lords and partly because he'd wanted to take Enola to see it, and she'd been frightfully busy righting wrongs and exacting justice for her various clients. So he'd put a pin in the idea and saved it for their honeymoon.
The Expo has been finished for over a year now but they are not the only people visiting the magnificent structure and Tewksbury spends a fair bit of time marvelling at the size and lofty height. Enola laughs at what she calls his moonstruck expression but is similarly, if briefly, impressed as well.
Nightfall rolls around quickly, the early winter chill sharp in the still air, and Tewksbury takes Enola to the theatre for an evening performance of a musical comedy. The attending guests are all dressed in luxurious furs and vibrantly dyed wool, and Enola grumbles about getting dragged out to parade for high society, but she wears a pale blue and silver gown with panels of outrageously expensive silk-velvet and a tourmaline-studded silver comb and looks beautiful. Tewksbury takes care to mention this several times on the trip to the theatre.
Fortunately, Enola forgets her complaints once the play has started. She is visibly engaged by the actors and singers down below on the stage, to Tewksbury's unhidden glee. He himself enjoys theatrical performances of all sorts, barring over-long opera, and, knowing Enola's frank, blunt sense of humour, he was fairly certain she'd appreciate this. She scoffs at some of the more outlandish moments and the more extravagant costumes but with little bite and she leans forward in her seat for the entire two hours.
The French, of course, is spoken swift and fluid, often with assorted play-on-words slipped in. Tewksbury has been learning French since he was five and rarely misses a word, even if he knows he's missing some of the nuance here and there, but Enola is nowhere near as fluent. While much of the show is entertaining with or without a firm grasp of the language, Tewksbury spends a fair bit of it translating as quickly as he can, his lips a breath from Enola's ear.
It's rather more distracting than initially anticipated.
The play finishes and they discuss the finer points on the cab ride back to the hotel, arguing about this song and that character. A smile twinkles in Enola's eyes the whole time and Tewskbury's heart feels almost unbearably full. He wonders, fleetingly, if his parents had this sort of open joy and affection between them.
Their room in the hotel is marvellously warm, the fire a glowing bed of hot coals, the curtains are drawn the lamps burning low, and Tewksbury orders them a light supper from the kitchen while Enola gets out of her evening attire and into her nightdress. She brushes her hair out and plaits it loosely by the fire, humming one of the musical's songs to herself while Tewksbury takes his turn getting undressed, belting his quilted robe to receive the supper tray at the door.
They sit on the hearthrug to drink their tea and eat their pastries, delightful little things called pain au chocolat, because Enola wants to sprawl and Tewksbury is, as is not unusual, in the mood to indulge her.
'So,' Enola says, after she's devoured her first pastry and is onto her second, 'what other delights do you have in store while we're here?'
There's a smear of chocolate at the corner of her mouth. Tewksbury valiantly attempts not to get distracted. 'Well, there's the Louvre and the museums, the ice rinks, a few other plays I thought we might see, and a great many attractive walks around the city and the outskirts. Besides that, a lot of good food and anything else that takes your fancy.'
Enola wrinkles her nose at the first option – ignorant and willfully so, Tewksbury recalls with a burst of fondness – but makes interested noises at most of the rest. Her tongue darts out to catch a stray flake of pastry but the chocolate remains, to Tewksbury's increasing distress.
'Ice skating would be fun,' she says. 'I'd wager I'm much better than you at it.'
Tewskbury gives her a dubious look. 'Have you ever skated before?'
'No,' Enola replies cheerfully, 'but I can walk a tightrope with three books on my head. Can you?'
Tewksbury admits that he cannot, although he has never actually tried.
'An experiment for when we get home,' Enola declares, her competitive shining through loud and clear. 'Can His Lordship learn to balance on a tightrope faster than I can learn to skate? We shall see.'
The word experiment sends a tingle of tactile memory down Tewksbury's spine. He regards Enola thoughtfully as she finishes her second pastry and licks the tips of her fingers before wiping them on the linen napkin, then reaches out slowly enough that she sees his hand and, arching a quizzical brow, chooses to stay still. Tewksbury cups her jaw and rubs gently at the chocolate with his thumb until it comes off. Boldness surging in his blood, he decides to clean his thumb by licking up the sweet stuff.
Enola looks smug instead of scandalised. 'Come here, then,' she tells him.
Tewksbury shuffles closer on his knees and is rewarded with a warm, chocolate-flavoured kiss, Enola's hands in his hair and her breath in his mouth. One kiss turns to two to three to four, by which point Tewksbury has lost count, what with being considerably preoccupied by the enthusiasm of the woman in his arms. They leave the remains of their supper on the hearthrug and tumble into bed together, giggly and clumsy with nerves but firm and sure in their touches, confident in their welcome.
This experiment goes on longer than the first one. At its conclusion, it can at last be said, even if very privately, that the marriage of the Marquess and Marchioness of Basilwether has been consummated. Tired and content, they fall asleep curled around each other.