"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 cocoon-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, swishing 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 glass. 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 embarrassing yourself. but I don't love you anymore. Stop embarrassing 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 document 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 passed 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 assured 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, Shelley 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.
Eight forty-five.
Maybe Henrietta could lure Kesseley behind a screen of flowers or a tiny terrace at the ball and whisper her revelation.
Eight-fifty.
Had he forgotten?
Eight fifty-six.
Should she check on him? Perhaps he was ill.
Nine o'clock.
"Boxly, call the carriage." Kesseley's rich voice sounded through the house.
Henrietta's heart surged. Her mouth felt sticky. Her lungs refused to work. He was just beyond the door.
She felt Lady Kesseley's wiry fingers pressing hers. "I'll be good, I will. You must help me."
One shiny black shoe in a silken stocking crossed the threshold, followed by tight breeches molded to the contour of hard thighs. A black coat clad powerful shoulders like a second skin, without a wrinkle or crease. Jutting out from the high points of a white collar was a hard, strong jaw. Two startling clear eyes surveyed the room, glittering dangerously. And his hair-all his lovely curls-gone, barbered back to a little more than an inch, including his side whiskers which barely extended beyond his ears. Henrietta never realized what chiseled cheekbones Kesseley possessed or how his brows soared.
This wasn't Kesseley. This was a cold rock of a man.
"You've become him, him," his mother whispered.
She was more coherent than Henrietta. All Henrietta's words, everything she dreamed, all her planning skittered away.
She didn't know this man.
Chapter Fifteen.
The ballroom walls were cover in muted gold silk and held expansive paintings of the host's noble ancestors. One ruddy-faced gentleman was painted with a gun barrel cradled in the crook of his elbow and a hound at his feet. Another more dour relation wore a white wig and posed beside a globe. These were the only distinguishing features separating this ballroom from the last.
Kesseley had not said a single word to her, not even taken her arm at the carriage. Where before she had fantasized about an impassioned kiss and a promise for forever behind a large fern or screen, she now wished for the same such concealment to shake Kesseley and demand to know what he was doing.
After greeting the host and hostess, Lady Kesseley remained true to her word and headed for the mamas sitting in rows like ornamental chickens in a henhouse, watching their daughters and sons on the dance floor.
Henrietta peeked at Kesseley. He showed no expression, surveying the crowd, unaffected by the blatant stares of other guests. His eyelids just drooped as if bored of the scene. Those weren't his eyes. The man she loved had eyes that were alive and delighted, like a small child's in awe of the caterpillar's cocoon or the perfect angle of geese flying overhead.
"Perhaps I should join your mother?" she offered tentatively, hoping he might say something to the contrary, like no, Henrietta, perhaps we should dance? no, Henrietta, perhaps we should dance? He looked down at her and gave her a quick smile. Henrietta almost burst. He looked down at her and gave her a quick smile. Henrietta almost burst.
Oh, Kesseley, smile at me again.
"There's Edward. It would be rude not to speak." His voice was low, silky in its derision.
What? No, no, not Edward. You!
But before she could protest, he grabbed her elbow and pulled her into the crowd. Henrietta practically had to run to keep up with his long strides. People made room for him as he passed. The more dashing ladies' eyes glittered with appreciation of his hard, elegant lines. He acknowledged them with a slight hike of his brows and a slow smile, like an intimate invitation. Where had he learned that? He never smiled that way for her. Henrietta's insides burned with jealousy, and she wanted to shout at those welcoming females.
Don't look at him like that. This is not Kesseley. The real Kesseley knows the correct nitrogen ratio for manure and how to birth a cow. That's not very dashing, is it?
Lady Sara and Edward waited at the edge of the room, under the orchestra den, about to step onto the dance floor where dancers were assembling for a waltz.
Lady Sara wore that pale pink only blondes could wear, with a low, ruffled bodice revealing her supple breasts. Her lush lips formed an O O when she saw Kesseley and the arm holding Edward's elbow dropped to her side. when she saw Kesseley and the arm holding Edward's elbow dropped to her side.
Edward, unaware of Kesseley sweeping toward him, was caught off guard.
"Mr. Watson, a pleasure to see you again." Kesseley yanked her forward so abruptly that she almost stumbled. "You remember your cousin Henrietta, don't you?"
Edward didn't acknowledge her, but his eyes fixed on Kesseley. "You've changed."
He snorted derisively. "It's rather poetic, isn't it, my good fellow-change. The flux of being. Suns born, new worlds discovered, old worlds conquered, civilizations dying, birth and death over and over again."
"You forget love, my lord," Lady Sara said quietly. Henrietta could almost see her heart fluttering under her breasts. "Are not some of the greatest poems about love?"
Kesseley paused. A predatory smile spread across his lips. "Perhaps the illusion of love. I, however, no longer believe in love."
His melodramatic words could have come straight out of The Mysterious Lord Blackraven. The Mysterious Lord Blackraven.
"Perhaps you have never met a lady to properly show you love," she suggested innocently.
"All ladies are quite the same really," he said. "Cruelty behind their beautiful facades. I have yet to find one worthy of my devotion."
His words slashed Henrietta's heart. She let out a small squeak of pain.
"A-are you enjoying the ball, Lord Kesseley?" Lady Sara asked, a pretty blush coloring her cheeks.
"No, I find these affairs a dead bore."
"What do you enjoy then? Swine?" Lady Sara was both teasing and provoking, trying to keep his attention.
Kesseley regarded her for a moment. Henrietta could see some thought ticking behind his gray eyes. He cocked his head. "I enjoy reading."
"And what do you read, my lord?" Lady Sara continued.
"Some poetry, some prose." He brazenly ran his gaze up Lady Sara's curves, stopping at her face. "The works of a Mrs. Fairfax."
I told you that! Henrietta fumed. Henrietta fumed. You blackguard. You're making a may game of Lady Sara! You blackguard. You're making a may game of Lady Sara!