Part 19 (1/2)

”Anger is a hard thing. It could take years or a lifetime to burn out. Still you must tell him, for your sake. Else the regret will destroy you.”

She didn't like his words. They seemed so resigned. ”Regret? Is there nothing I can do to make everything right, nothing at all?”

He gazed at her, that wise look gone from his face. Suddenly, his eyes were as lost and yearning as hers. ”Are there enough words for all the years you hurt someone else? For all the pain and suffering you inflicted?”

Her throat tightened, tears swelling under her lids. ”Is this all the advice you have? This, this is hopeless.”

”So we are back.”

”Back to what?”

”This day. This river. All we really ever have.”

”It's not enough! I must make this better. I must make him love me again.”

”Miss Watson, for all your striving, all your schemes, what have you gained?”

She refused to say anything. She refused to admit she had lost more than she gained. That she was powerless. She couldn't.

The sky couldn't wait one more block for Henrietta to get home before letting go of all its rain. Drenched, she hurried to her chamber, tore off her wet bonnet, pelisse and shoes. Then she dove under the blankets and curled into a tiny ball, trying to warm her chilled body. Noise penetrated her little coc.o.o.n-the sharp cries of people on the street hurrying in the rain, the rattle of traffic, the closing of mews doors. She wrapped her pillow around her head until she could hear just the sound of her breath moving in and out of her body.

She loved Kesseley. She had always loved Kesseley. Why did the realization strike her with the same fear as a physician telling of her impending death?

You must tell him you love him. That is the most important thing.

Why?

Would she end up like Lady Kesseley, desperate to recall the feeling of being loved and wanted, concealing her indiscretions in vacant rooms at parties?

Henrietta hugged her knees.

She imagined herself back home on those flat, tilled fields of Norfolk stretching to the horizon. If she left Rose House and walked down the rows of wheat, some of Kesseley's old barns would rise up, with Wrenthorpe even farther in the distance. Inside the barns, heavy iron tools were mounted on the walls. Pigs sniffed in between the wooden slats. Horses stomped the ground, swis.h.i.+ng their tails, picking up straw with their lips. The dairy cows stood patient, their large udders drooping as they waited to be milked.

This was Kesseley's world. Could it be hers?

She rolled over and imagined herself out in the lawn behind Wrenthorpe, her belly swelling in the family way, a matronly lace cap on her head. Kesseley would crouch on his boot heels holding his hands out, ready to catch their daughter as she took her first, tentative steps. Their daughter. He always said he wanted girls. Their children would adore their father, for he would set them on his big shoulders and take them around the farm, as wild and unkempt as himself, then let them climb the hay stacks or ride the goats.

A small smile lifted her face and radiated through her body, like the sun warming her skin in the summer when lines of corn-filled wagons left the village for the ports.

They would marry in the late spring, while Virgo and Hydra still lit the night sky, at the altar of the stone village church where her mother's grave lay just beyond the stained gla.s.s. A wreath of red poppies on the grave and crowning her veil. Kesseley would stand before her in his black breeches and coat, all worn and crumpled, somehow endearing him even more to her. His wild locks would fall about his lovely gray eyes, twinkling like sunlight striking quartz. The old vicar would ramble on and on in his usual way and several of the village men would fall asleep.

Hours after the ”I do,” Kesseley-no, Thomas, as she would call her husband in his chamber-would lay her upon his bed, letting his hand linger on her cheek, promising to be gentle to his new bride, but then kissing her like last night-unbridled, almost obscene and thoroughly intoxicating. Good Lord, they might never leave his chamber for the entirety of their married lives!

Yes, she must tell him she loved him and plead for him to forgive her. She knew now. It was so very clear. Surely he would see it too and forgive her for everything. She would tell him before the ball tonight, wearing a beautiful evening gown, flowers in her hair and her mother's pendant around her neck. Later at the ball, they would laugh and dance, their beautiful secret glowing in their eyes.

She slid out of bed and rang for the servant to come dampen her hair and roll it in paper to make those perfect ringlets. She opened a jar of rose-scented cream and rubbed the lotion into her skin.

Kesseley headed to Boodles in the early morning, drank three cups of black tea and picked up The London Times. The London Times. It took him an hour to read the first page, his mind drifting between the sentences. It took him an hour to read the first page, his mind drifting between the sentences.

You weren't the one I wanted.

He despised her. He never thought it possible. He believed himself bigger than to despise anyone, but as much as he tried to press it down, it boiled up inside him. He wanted to hurt her as she had hurt him, although he knew he was a better man than that. He must let go of the past.

But he couldn't.

He wanted revenge, the kind only a perfect world could supply. He envisioned his wedding party, where Henrietta cried at what a horrible mistake she'd made, that he was the only man she could love. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, he'd say, his beautiful wife on his arm, he'd say, his beautiful wife on his arm, but I don't love you anymore. Stop embarra.s.sing yourself. but I don't love you anymore. Stop embarra.s.sing yourself.

I don't love you anymore.

Just thinking it-even if it wasn't real-made him feel elated, strangely reckless.

He couldn't stay out all afternoon, although he wanted to, for he had an appointment with his new valet. The man was slighter than his brother, the tailor, and more serious. He spoke little English and wore thick spectacles that enlarged his solemn eyes.

Along with Kesseley's new clothes wrapped in paper, he brought along his own trunk and a doc.u.ment bearing the names of four Germanic princes-his former employers. He didn't speak as he examined Kesseley's clothes press, systematically touching each item, examining the hems and shoulders and seams with no expression on his face. He lifted up every boot and shoe, turned them over, reviewing all sides, then replaced them. He opened Kesseley's commode and ran his hand across his toilette items.

Eventually the valet came to stand in the center of the room, like a junior officer who had finished his inventory, waiting to report. Baggot glowered at him from the shadows in the corner.

Kesseley said, ”I am going to a ball tonight-einem Tanz-I want to look better-Ich mochte stattlich sein.” He wished he hadn't burned Henrietta's picture of the dandy with the curls. He moved his hand about his head, in spiraling circular motions.

The valet shook his head. ”No, my lord,” he said, then opened Kesseley's commode and brought out his shears. ”Cut.”

Henrietta came down for dinner, feeling that she looked lovelier than she ever had in her life. She chose a pale lavender gown, not her prettiest, but one she had worn to Kesseley's Christmas party when they had danced, making it his. his. A natural blush tinged her cheeks and an excitement pulsed through her. She had practiced words, so many words, beautiful ones. Promises to be a good wife and mother. To love so deeply, as to make up for every hurting word, angry utterance or broken promise. A natural blush tinged her cheeks and an excitement pulsed through her. She had practiced words, so many words, beautiful ones. Promises to be a good wife and mother. To love so deeply, as to make up for every hurting word, angry utterance or broken promise.

She met Lady Kesseley in the dining room. She had dressed sedately, in an understated gown of pale green. She didn't compliment Henrietta's gown or note how lovely Henrietta looked this momentous evening.

They waited for Kesseley. After several minutes, Lady Kesseley sent the footman to fetch her son. He returned with a message that the lord intended to dine in his chamber.

The ladies bore the news stoically and pa.s.sed dinner with few words, both lost in their internal thoughts. Henrietta ate very little, her belly too tight and jittery for food.

Once retired to the parlor, Lady Kesseley seized Henrietta's hand, forcing her to sit beside her on the sofa. ”Tommie is still angry,” she cried. ”I promised him that I would never see Sir Gilling again, but it doesn't help. He is ashamed of me.”

”I will try to make everything better,” Henrietta a.s.sured her.

Then she hurriedly changed the subject before Lady Kesseley broke down. For Henrietta only wanted only pleasant, beautiful things this evening, even if she had to force them. So they spoke hollowly of their favorite flowers, samplers they had sewn, whether they liked the minuet or the quadrille better. Wordsworth, Sh.e.l.ley and Byron. All the while the pendulum swung on the clock.

Where was he? If he didn't come down soon, there would not be enough time to tell him, for the ball started at eight, and it was eight-fifteen.

Lady Kesseley and Henrietta discussed table configurations and menus for the winter months.

Eight-thirty. Still time.

Lady Kesseley agreed that Huntley caps were very pleasing, but she didn't favor Mob caps.