by Susanna Ives
“Mr. Watson, may I be so presumptuous as to give a toast on this momentous evening?” Mr. Van Heerlen appealed to her father.
“Please, consider Rose House as your own home,” her father replied.
Mr. Van Heerlen stood and held his glass before him. “A-a-astronomy,” he began.
“Pardon me, I am a little nervous this evening. Astronomy is the work of envious mortal men, whose eyes are always lifted to the heavens, enchanted by her beauty and mystery. She lures us, seduces us, whispers in our ears that inside her whirling wondrous world is everything we long for, everything we lack. Nothing in this world can hold to the beauty of the stars, no art, poem or music. And we astronomers grow jaded, discontent in our skins, finding this world vulgar and base.”
He paused. Henrietta thought he was finished and started to raise her glass, but he cleared his throat and continued. “At least that is how I felt when I received an invitation to Rose House. For Mr. Watson declared a preposterous thing for a relatively unknown astronomer. He had mathematically proven another planet existed behind Uranus. Of course, this had been speculated for years, but always came to nothing. My first thought—I shamefully admit—was to decline the invitation. But something, I dare not say what, told me to accept. A divine intuition, some would say.”
Kesseley’s chair creaked as he settled deeper into it. He ran the fingers of his free hand under his cravat. He looked at her, his gray eyes appearing black and almost dangerous in the low light. She could see his pulse throb along his neck. Her gaze drifted down his sloppy cravat to his chest. Was it still the skinny flat board of a boy’s? From the rise of his coat, she could only imagine that it bulged with hard muscles. Heat crept up her body as if the door to his bedchamber was cracked open and she accidentally saw inside as he dressed. Her mind wandered into this forbidden chamber, where he waited in only his pantaloons. He let her fingers run up the contours of his naked arm, over his shoulder and down the hard ripples of his chest. Then she rose to her tiptoes to place a light kiss on his lips, his arm reaching around the small of her back, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss like that day by the Ouse when—
What am I doing?
Was I kissing Kesseley in my imagination? And liking it? Stop!
Still, that heavy warmth lingered in her most private place, like the afterglow of an extinguished candle. She wished Mr. Van Heerlen would finish the toast. It was dragging on forever, and she needed to wash away these disturbing feelings with some strong vinegar.
She quickly put Edward in Kesseley’s imaginative place. Remembering the feel of his lips, she became lost in her memories. Mr. Van Heerlen’s voice drifted in her brain like music from a far room. Kesseley kicked her foot under the table. She jerked to attention just as Mr. Van Heerlen said her name.
“Miss Watson, this lady with hair and eyes as dark as the heavens and skin as luminescent as the sunlit moon, took the pages from her father’s hand and explained the heavens to me, as if they were her home, like an ancient goddess. As her fingers slid along the diagrams, charting the stars, I admit that after a time, I knew not what she said. My heart ached, bereft of its secret she unwittingly stole. The silent beauty of stars.”
Mr. Van Heerlen looked deeply into Henrietta’s eyes. A question. A silent proposal. Henrietta swallowed down her gasp. Hot crimson blotches broke across her face.
“Mr. Van-Van H-Heerlen,” she stuttered. Dear God, she never once conceived that he might have affection for her! Affections she couldn’t possibly return. Yet, her father’s future depended upon him. “Those are b-beautiful words, but—”
“I don’t understand,” Kesseley said. His face looked comically lopsided with one brow furrowed and the other one raised.
Mr. Van Heerlen cleared his throat. “What do you mean?”
Kesseley pushed his plate up and put his index finger by his glass. “First, you say that no beauty on earth tempts you. Only stars.” He drew an invisible line from his glass to his fork. “Then I get confused, because you claim Miss Watson stole your secret—your love of the stars. Was that a compliment for Miss Watson?”
“I was merely comparing Miss Watson to the beauty of the stars.”
“That is what I thought, but the syllogism is not correct. You see, you have made no true comparison. You should say—‘I love stars, stars are beautiful, Miss Watson is beautiful,’ and by means of the goddess analogy, you could say Miss Watson is a star. Then it would be a logically correct statement that you love Miss Watson. She is everything you lack.” Kesseley neatly charted this on the table linen with his index finger.
Henrietta kicked him so hard the table shook. Samuel yelped.
Mr. Van Heerlen appeared unfazed by the transitive declaration of his love. “Thank you for the lesson, good man. Are you a philosopher?”
“No, just a farmer tilling up this base and vulgar world.”
Seeing Mr. Van Heerlen’s eyes narrow, Henrietta interceded. “Lord Kesseley is a bit of a scientist as well. He had an article in a recent agricultural journal. What was it about, Lord Kesseley?”
“Increasing Turnips Yield by Addition of Ash Constituents,” he replied flatly, then nothing more. Hadn’t he said he would be delicate? Well, this moment would be a perfect time to begin.
“And what does that mean?” she said, a little pointy edge to her voice.
Kesseley took a deep breath and began in a monotone, like a child prodded by his parent. “Everyone has assumed that manure with the correct ammonia ratio, when stored, produces enough nitrogen to make soil fertile. However, I found with my own manure that my crop yield actually diminished. So I conducted an experiment with my turnips. I discovered that adding ash constituents from the previous crop to your manure gives you a better yield. For instance, if you have one field you fertilize with just manure and another that you—”
“Fascinating,” the famed astronomer said in such a way as to intone the opposite.
“You are in many journals all over the world, are you not, Mr. Van Heerlen?” Henrietta asked, trying her hardest to keep the conversation diverted from her.
“Yes, of course. My comets. I have—”
“Those comets were discovered over a decade ago,” Kesseley said dismissively. “Do you not follow the work of our Astronomer Royal, John Pond? I have read his articles in the Royal Academy’s Philosophical Transactions. Is it not fascinating, his work with observation using mural circles?”
“Yes, a brilliant man,” Mr. Watson agreed, with a duck wing in his mouth.
Mr. Van Heerlen’s Flemish accent hardened. “No, I do not work with Mr. Pond. Our studies are quite different. Although a gifted astronomer, he is—in my opinion—too slow to embrace the advances of the Germans. We have debated this point, as gentlemen, of course.”
A slow smile crossed Kesseley’s face. His chair creaked as he leaned back, widening his stance, his fingers tapping the table. “No doubt having the credit of discovering a new planet will prove your superiority.”
She wasn’t sure what passed between the two men, but each looked unflinching at the other, lips tight. For a moment, she thought it wouldn’t be unthinkable for one to leap over the table and throttle the other.
“Lord Kesseley, did I not tell you that Papa and Mr. Van Heerlen have an appointment at the Royal Observatory in a few weeks?” She grasped at conversational topics, trying to sound light.
“Well, this works out perfectly. Henrietta will be away in London, and you two may work in silence, undisturbed by the beauty of Henrietta’s stars—although I prefer to say the beauty of her face. But, you see, I am far more direct than yourself, Mr. Van Heerlen.”
“London?” Mr. Van Heerlen asked her.
She shook her head. “I don’t know what—”
“You promised Mother to be her companion for the Season. We’ve gotten the London house ready for you and engaged a box at the opera. The Season has already started. It’s too late to go back on your word.” Kesseley stared at her with a dead serio
us expression on his face, as if to say, how could you forget?
She wanted to leap from her seat and embrace him, perhaps even kiss him like she had in her imagination.
London! Edward!
I’m going to get Kesseley the very best bride in all of England—Lady Sara, of course! He will be the handsomest gentleman on St. James! I will pull the full romantic moon down from the heavens for him and throw in Sirius to boot. We star goddesses can do these things!
Chapter Three
Kesseley had finished his morning rounds and couldn’t procrastinate any longer. The new drainage ditch had been staked out, and the tenants could begin digging. For once, one of his cows had an easy birth, and the new, wet creature immediately suckled his mama’s teat. He should have felt optimism instead of dread as he and Samuel walked back to Wrenthorpe, the morning sun rising over its roof.
But he knew his mother wouldn’t take the news of Henrietta well. It had only been after months of tearful pleas from his mother about how he needed to break from Henrietta and find a wife who would love and appreciate him that he had finally consented to give the Season a try. And now he had to confess that Henrietta would be tagging along. As Mama’s companion, no less. He braced for the onslaught of maternal tears and guilt as he entered Wrenthorpe through the stable yards. From the bakehouse, the delicious smell of rising bread mingled with scents of hay and horses. The blind girl he had hired from the village was running her fingers along the laundry line, hanging the newly washed sheets. Samuel chased the cats from his water bucket and dipped his head in, lapping noisy slurps. Kesseley walked into the scullery, stepped out of his boots and put his head under the pump.
“My lord.” A nervous young female servant curtsied and handed him a towel.
“Thank you, Rebecca.” He wiped his face and neck. “Has your father recovered from his chill? Should I send out the physician again?”
“Mama says he is quite well now. Thank you, my lord.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said, handing her the soiled towel. He took the servants’ passage to the morning parlor and quietly slipped through the door.
His mother’s parlor was an airy, tranquil room with pale yellow walls and white wainscoting. The gold brocade curtains had been drawn back, letting in the light from the neat boxwood garden just beyond the panes.
Kesseley leaned against the doorframe and observed his mother sitting at her desk, unaware of his presence. Her head was bowed over a book that lay open before her. The sunlight shone on her fair skin and blond hair that curled about the edges of her lace cap. She bit her bottom lip, made a soft humming sound and turned a page.
Kesseley remained silent, marveling at the serenity that had come over their lives since his father’s death.
In this same room twenty years before, he had rushed in, wanting to show off the picture he had drawn of a machine for planting carrots. He had found his mother sobbing, shoved against her desk, as his father stood between her limbs, clawing at the cotton of her new ivory morning gown.
“You’re making me wild,” his father groaned.
“Leave me alone,” she screamed, flailing under his grip. “Go to one of your mistresses.”
Terror seized Kesseley’s young mind. He didn’t know or care what a mistress was or why his father was ripping his wife’s gown, all he knew was his mama was being hurt. He charged, his fists balled like little stones, and pounded his father’s back.
“Don’t hurt my mama! Don’t hurt my mama!” he wailed.
The earl pushed his son in the chest with the heel of his palm. Kesseley fell backward and sprawled on the rug. His father came to stand over him, a diamond and gold ring glinting from his fisted fingers. In his eyes glowed that dangerous, alcohol-induced shine that always scared young Kesseley.
“You leave my mother alone,” Kesseley spat, even as he raised his small arm to shield his face.
The earl laughed. “I’m not hurting her,” he said in his low, purring voice, the sweet fire of brandy on his breath. “Son, this is what a woman is made to do. You need to know these things.”
He strode back to his wife, now huddled on the desk, her arms crossed over her body, quivering and sobbing. He ran his finger down her cheek and across her chin. “I made your mother a lady,” he said, as his finger trailed farther down her neck to the delicate amulet on her necklace. “Do you see this diamond, son? And these pretty clothes? I gave them to her. And all I want is one simple thing. But she can’t seem to remember her duty as my wife.” He gently lifted Lady Kesseley’s chin. “Now what do you say to me?”
She shook her head, refusing to answer.
His knuckles turned white as his grip tightened. “What do you say to me?” he growled.
Kesseley rose up. “Leave her alone!”
The earl turned slowly, his brows low, the edge of his teeth just visible below his tight lips. Kesseley stepped back, petrified.
“I’m sorry,” Lady Kesseley cried, grabbing her husband’s arm. “Please, I’m sorry.”
“I know you are.” The earl ripped himself free of her hold. “Thomas, take your ugly picture and get the hell out of here.”
Now the pretty room felt like an old battlefield overgrown with grass and wildflowers covering any reminders of bloodshed. For a moment, that feeling of deep, peaceful relief flowed through him like the day they had set his father’s coffin in the family vault and heaved the heavy marble slabs back in place.
“What abominable trash,” Lady Kesseley cried. She slammed her book shut with a hard thud, regarded the cover for a moment, then pushed the offensive volume off the desk.
Kesseley chuckled. “I gather the lady does not care for the book?”
His mother’s head shot up. Sunlight reflected in her pale, wintry eyes. “Tommie, I didn’t see you!” A deep blush blossomed over her skin.
“Good lord, what lurid things are you reading?” he teased, bending over to retrieve the book.
Oh no. He recognized the swirling marbled cover. “Don’t tell me you are reading The Mysterious Lord Blackraven too?”
“Good heavens, no! Fanny sent me that. How she could dare—” Lady Kesseley halted, and then brushed the curls off her forehead. “I mean, how dare she send me such embarrassing drivel.”
“I concur. I’m only on page ninety-seven and I keep hoping some right-minded gentleman character will challenge Blackraven to a duel and end my literary misery.”
His mother let out a little gurgling laugh. “I never knew you liked sensational claptrap.”
“I don’t. Henrietta recommended it. Actually recommend is putting it lightly. She ordered me to read it.”
The amusement vanished from his mother’s face. “I thought you were avoiding that girl. You know how I feel about her.”
Kesseley sighed and resigned himself to the inevitable battle. He returned the abused volume to the desk. “You judge her too harshly.”
“I do not. I can’t forgive Henrietta for how she treated you. She’s been spoiled since her poor mother died and her father does nothing to curb her selfish and wild behavior. Every time I saw her in the village, I tried to give her some motherly guidance but she paid me no heed. As if I didn’t matter.”
He didn’t miss the slight quiver in her voice. His father had told her over and over that she was worthless.
“Now, that’s not true,” he said, laying his hand over her smaller one. “Henrietta thinks the world of you. Everyone does.”
He gave her fingers a small squeeze and then let go.
“I have a little problem. Can you help me?” he asked, taking a seat in the ladder-back chair near her desk. He leaned back, lifting the front feet from the floor.
“Yes, of course.” A bright smile curled her lips. He knew she loved feeling needed.
“A scholar—a bachelor scholar—is visiting Henrietta’s father and pushing his unwanted affections on her.”
“I fail to see how this is your problem. She has a father, albeit a rather useless one.
Don’t you dare help her. She’s hurt you enough. If this scholar is so bothersome, she should have that cousin of hers take care of him. She’s been chasing him hard enough these past months.”
Kesseley fingered a loose green thread on his cuff. “The thing is, Edward was caught trying to run away with a Lady Sara. Henrietta is devastated.”
“No!” his mother gasped. “The Duke of Houghton’s daughter?”
“I believe so.”
She paused for a moment, running her thumb along the edge of The Mysterious Lord Blackraven. “Well, I truly feel sorry for Henrietta,” she began, “but please don’t think this is a chance for you to win her affections.”
Kesseley’s focus shifted from his mother to a figurine of a shepherdess set by the inkwell. “I don’t have those feelings for her anymore.”
“Yes, you do. You are too much like me when you care for someone.”
“And how is that?”
She rose and walked to the window. “Weak,” she whispered. Beyond the glass, Samuel had plopped down on the cool stones under the sundial.
“I asked her to be your companion in London.”
“What!” His mother spun around.
“I thought I could help her.”
Her eyes widened with horror and then narrowed. “Help her? This was that sly minx’s idea. This scholar isn’t bothering her. She’s just trying to get to her cousin in London. Don’t you see that she is using you?”
“No. This was all my doing. She had nothing to do with it.”
Lady Kesseley jutted her chin. “I don’t want a companion. Fanny and the princess Wilhelmina are coming in from Brighton to help us, so I have no use for Henrietta.”
“But she is too excited now, going on about what she’s going to wear to plays and operas and all those senseless things she cares about.”
“I don’t care if she sewed an entire wardrobe complete with a court dress of gold thread, she is not going.”