by Meghan Sloan
Hetty nodded, biting her lip harder. Perhaps she had been too cautious in not reaching out to people.
“It warms my heart to hear you say it, Annabelle,” she said slowly. “I was afraid. Afraid that you might not wish to know me, after what Frank did to me. That you might not want to associate with a ruined woman …”
“What nonsense,” said Annabelle, snorting. “I do not care what society thinks about what has been done to you. It was none of your doing. The fault lies entirely with that rake, who you call a husband.” She glowered. “I never liked him you know. Not that I would have told you before.”
“You didn’t?” asked Hetty, surprised.
Annabelle shook her head. “No. Too smarmy and smooth, in my book. Frank Blackmore always tried a little bit too hard.” She paused. “But having said that, I never expected this, for a moment. That he would do what he has done to you. Have you had any word from him or know where he is and what he is doing now?”
Hetty shook her head. “Nothing. Papa hired a private investigator, but so far, there have been no sightings of him. It is all a mystery.”
“And he simply walked out on you the day after your wedding?”
Hetty nodded. “He left a note on a table in my bedroom. Later in the morning, a solicitor arrived, informing me the house had been sold a week prior, and that I must vacate …”
Annabelle flushed with anger. “The swine! How could he have done this to you? I swear before God Almighty that I shall punch him in the nose if I ever have the misfortune of seeing his miserable face again.”
Hetty laughed. “Do not do that, dearest. You might get into trouble.” She sighed. “I am resigned to it now. It still hurts but not as bad as it did …”
Annabelle picked up her tea, sipping thoughtfully. Then she put down the cup, staring at her friend.
“I have heard other rumours,” she said slowly. “That a duke, no less, has been staying here, on and off, paying you attention. Is it true, Hetty?”
Hetty blushed. “It is true. I could not believe it when he arrived on our doorstep, proposing marriage …”
“But you are still married,” breathed Annabelle, her eyes wide. “Did he not realise that?”
“He knows,” said Hetty, shaking her head. “But he does not care. He has helped Papa to apply for a divorce on my behalf and claims that he shall wait for me.” She hesitated. “He is the gentleman who I was dancing with at the Farnhams’ ball when you became sick, all those years ago. Do you remember me telling you about him?”
Annabelle gasped. “Yes, I do! The wickedly handsome one, with green eyes, and dark hair? But you did not say he was a duke …”
“That was because I did not know,” said Hetty, frowning slightly. “He lied to me, that night, introducing himself as someone else entirely. He claims it was just a lark, for the evening, but I do not know.” She hesitated. “Something about him does not add up. I think that he might be hiding something from me …”
“Oh, Hetty, do not be so suspicious,” breathed Annabelle, her eyes shining. “He has remembered you, through all these years, and is intent on marrying you, despite what has happened, and the fact that you may never get a divorce.” She paused. “I know how impressed you were at the time by him. You should give him a chance. Has he declared his love for you?”
Hetty shook her head. “No. But he spends a lot of time with me and treats me very well.” She bit her lip. “But Annabelle, I cannot marry him, even if my divorce does come through. I vowed never to trust a man again, after what Frank did to me. I simply cannot let myself be vulnerable, in such a way, ever again …”
Annabelle looked shocked. “Hetty, he is a duke,” she breathed. “You would have such high status. Your life would be so very privileged. And I can tell that you like him, just by the way you are speaking about him.” She gazed at Hetty sadly. “Not all gentlemen are cut from the same cloth as Frank Blackmore, dearest. I know that you have been wronged so very badly, but that does not mean this man will do the same thing to you …”
Hetty’s frown deepened. This was agony. She so wanted to believe what Annabelle was saying to her. But every time she started to soften towards the Duke, she began to panic. It was as if a defensive wall was suddenly erected inside her, and she could not hope to scale it.
“I wish to join a convent,” she said, looking Annabelle in the eye. “I want to be a nun.”
“What?” snorted Annabelle, spilling her tea. “A nun? You are joking with me, surely?”
Hetty miserably shook her head. “It is no joke. I wish to be in control of my own life and not be a burden on my parents for the rest of my days. I cannot marry ever again, even if I obtain a divorce. And in the world, I am a ruined woman. I do not wish to carry around the taint of scandal forever …”
“Hetty, you are not thinking clearly,” said Annabelle, looking shocked. “You are hurt and heartbroken by what Frank has done to you. I do not blame you for that, but you simply cannot throw your life away in a convent. I know you, and you would make a terrible nun. Believe me.”
Hetty felt offended. “I think I would be quite competent …”
“No, you would not,” said Annabelle quickly. “I do not wish to rain on your parade, dearest, but it is the simple truth of it. You are much too spirited. You would be arguing with the mother superior on the first day. You are not subservient enough for such a life, Hetty. And you are far too clever.” She paused, gazing at Hetty thoughtfully. “Did Frank … make love to you on your wedding night?”
Hetty blushed again. “No, he would not even sleep next to me, in the same bed. He claimed that I was tired, and he wanted to give me space …”
Annabelle sighed heavily. “You have not even been touched by a man, Hetty. Do you not think you would regret that if you took the veil? You would never be able to live freely again. That chance would be gone forever.” She paused. “And I can tell that you like this duke, in that certain way. You would not be blushing so fiercely every time we mention him if you did not.”
Hetty was silent. She shifted uneasily in her chair, contemplating Annabelle’s words.
It was true. She longed for the Duke to touch her. It was like a fire that had been slowly growing within her, the more time they spent together. Sometimes, if he accidently brushed against her, it leapt to life, as if it had a life of its own.
Imagine what it would be like to be touched by him all the time. Every night of my life, lying in his arms …
She shuddered, feeling that fire stirring within her once again. It was kindling to life, leaping and flickering, so fierce that she was scared that it would engulf her, entirely.
“Where is the Duke now?” asked Annabelle, quickly gazing around. “Is he here?”
Hetty shook her head. “No. He comes and goes, back and forth, between his estate in Hampshire, and here.” She frowned. “It is strange, Annabelle. He grows moody, after a few days here, and then suddenly announces he must leave within the hour. I am sure he is hiding something from me …”
Annabelle sighed again. “Hetty, if you want my advice, I think you should just let it happen, as it will,” she said slowly. “Stop trying to fight what you feel. Learn to trust again. And do not run away to a convent, dearest. You would look simply hideous in a nun’s habit.”
Hetty burst out laughing. Annabelle joined in, and suddenly, they were both hysterical. Della jumped excitedly, eager to be a part of the hilarity.
***
After Annabelle had left, Hetty sat in the drawing room, trying to read one of the books that the Duke had leant her. But her heart wasn’t in it. Restlessly, she put the book down, wandering through the house, like a lost soul.
Was her friend right? Should she give the Duke a chance and give up the thought of entering a convent entirely?
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Hetty took a deep breath, then walked swiftly towards it. She was closest, after all, and it would save the butler the long walk from the kitchen.
There was a messenger standing there. Without a word, he put a letter into her hands and left.
Hetty stared down at it, her blood running cold.
It was addressed to her. And it was written in Frank Blackmore’s hand. She would recognise that scrawl anywhere.
She almost dropped the letter. He had written to her. Fearfully, she gazed at it as if it might suddenly explode.
He had turned her whole world upside down. What on earth was the letter going to say? For a moment, she was tempted to throw it to the wind.
But then, she stopped herself. She had to be brave. She must face this.
With a heart full of dread, she trailed up the stairs to her room to read it privately. Her legs were shaking so much Hetty was surprised that she didn’t fall down entirely.
Her past had returned. And she knew, with deep certainty, that this letter was not going to contain anything good.
Chapter 12
Louis knew instantly that something had changed the minute he walked back into Hillsworth House.
Hetty seemed subdued, even more than she usually was. She sat on the chaise longue in the drawing room, dressed in a sober dark blue gown, as severe as a nun’s habit. Her rich chestnut hair was styled in a plain bun at the back of her head; there were no curls framing her face. She glanced quickly at him, then dropped her gaze to the floor.
Mrs Arnold was sitting opposite her, looking solemn, as well. There was no sign of Mr Arnold.
He gazed from one to the other. “Has something happened?”
Mrs Arnold cleared her throat. “I think I shall go to the kitchen and order some tea,” she said, standing up. “Perhaps Hetty might inform you of what has occurred while I do so, Your Grace.” She hesitated for a moment, glancing at her daughter, but when Hetty did not respond, she quickly left the room.
Louis sat down on the chair that Mrs Arnold had just vacated, gazing closely at Hetty. She was pale, even paler than normal.
“Hetty,” he said, in a low voice. “What is it?”
She sighed deeply, finally raising her head and gazing steadily at him.
“I received a letter from Frank,” she said slowly. “It arrived just yesterday afternoon.”
Louis felt his heart constrict. The rake had finally got in contact with her. And judging by the look on her face, what he had imparted was not good.
“What did he say?” he asked gently.
Hetty stood up abruptly, pacing the floor. “He informed me that he has left the country,” she said, in a strangled voice. “He is currently in France. He said that he sailed there as soon as he left our own home …”
“France?” Louis frowned. “He sailed there to avoid the fallout from the scandal I take it?”
Hetty stopped, gazing at him with a bitter look on her face. “One might assume so, but it is a bit more complicated than that,” she said. “Frank informed me that he has a mistress. Her name is Amelie Marchand, a French native.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Mademoiselle Marchand wanted to return to her home, and her family, as she is in a delicate condition.”
Louis’s blood ran cold. “She is …”
Hetty took another deep breath. “Yes, she is with child, and Frank claims her child as his own,” she said, her face twisting. “Mademoiselle Marchand was his mistress, the whole time that we were engaged, you see. He claims that he always loved her, and that he never loved me.” She paused. “As if I did not always know that he held no great affection for me. But still, the fact that he had a mistress the whole time is still a great shock, as you can imagine.”
Louis nodded. The unspeakable scoundrel. Frank Blackmore had married Hetty, while involved in a close liaison with another woman. More than that, he had always been intending to desert Hetty, to be with this other woman. He had just been waiting to get her money before he did so.
“Frank claims that he wishes to start afresh, in France,” she continued, her voice bitter. “And reading between the lines, it is obvious that the funds from my dowry and the sale of our house is funding his little love nest.” Her face twisted again. “While I sit here, in my parents’ home, bearing the brunt of his desertion, he has sailed off into the sunset with his lover and their coming child, laughing all the way to the bank.”
Louis stood up, slowly approaching her. He reached out, taking her hand. He was heartened to see that she did not try to snatch it away.
“At least you know,” he said, in a quiet voice. “At least you have the reason, now, why he did what he did. It does not make it any less painful to bear, but it clears up a few questions.”
“Indeed,” said Hetty, her eyes flashing. “I simply have no idea why he condescended to finally write to me to inform me of it. Perhaps he does have a small conscience after all. Perhaps he wants absolution from me, for what he has done. Confession does ease the soul, after all.”
Louis frowned. “Hetty, I know how painful this is for you,” he said. “But it means that you can move on.” He gazed at her closely. “Please tell me that you have not destroyed the letter. It is proof of his permanent desertion and that he was calculated in what he did to you. We can present it as evidence to the court when the time comes.”
Hetty smiled faintly. “Oh, believe me, I have not destroyed it,” she replied. “I made that mistake with the note that he left me at our house, hurling it into the fire, in my pain and rage.” She took a deep breath. “I am keeping this one. It is in a very safe place, and I shall present it as evidence if the court decides ever to grant me a hearing.”
He squeezed her hand. “It will happen,” he declared fervently. “The wheels of the process are slow turning, but I am confident, as you should be, as well. We shall make Frank Blackmore pay for what he has done to you. But more than that, you shall be a free woman again, Hetty.”
She gazed at him, her eyes filling with tears. “How could he have done it to me?” she whispered, in anguish. “How could he have been so mercenary as to marry me just for my money, all the while knowing that he was going to discard me like a used rag?”
“There are no words for such a man,” he said, his face darkening with anger. “He has no honour. To treat you in such a cavalier fashion … when you deserve the world … when you are the epitome of loveliness, in a woman…”
He was so close to her now. He could smell the scent of her hair; a lemony fragrance, wafting up towards him, so very inviting. He could pull her into his arms so easily. A mere slight tug and she would be encircled within them …
But at that moment, the maid arrived, carrying the tea tray. He stepped back, away from her, severing the connection between them.
It wasn’t time, yet. And now she was wounded anew. Would Frank Blackmore’s declaration sever completely the fragile bond that they had established? The bond that he had worked so hard to build between them?
***
Later that day, they walked together through the gardens, her dog at their heels. She was silent and subdued. He could tell that her mind was very far away.
“Shall we go further?” he asked quietly. “To the apple tree again?”
She sighed. “As you wish.”
Della yelped delightedly when he opened the back gate, sprinting off over the field. They walked in further silence towards the large tree. It had shed the majority of its fruit, the apples lying on the ground around it, rotting. But there were still a few on the tree, and he reached up now, picking two.
He handed one to her, and they sat down, side by side, leaning against the trunk. The broken wooden seat of the swing was still lying on the ground, in exactly the same position. Vividly, he remembered when she had crashed to earth, and he had rushed to her, concerned she had hurt herself. And then, to his surprise, she had started laughing. The sound of it still reverberated in his head.