Rakes and Radishes

by Susanna Ives

  A moment later, she opened her eyes. Big fluffy clouds passed overhead, little birds twittered and Edward’s green eyes were looking down at her. A deep warmth spread over her heart.

  “Oh Edward, you do love me,” she whispered.

  “Good God! Henrietta!” He kneeled beside her. A bead of perspiration ran down his forehead. “Are you hurt? Are you well? What the hell—what are you doing here?”

  Why was he so upset? “I’m walking Samuel.”

  “No, I mean here in London?”

  Then everything came back in one big whooshing wave of remembrance.

  Oh yes, I’m in London, lying on the ground in Hyde Park. And Edward loves Lady Sara.

  “Can you sit up?” he asked.

  No, she just wanted to lie there until the grass grew over her and she completely disappeared. However, that wasn’t an option, for Edward practically yanked her from the ground by her elbow, causing her to fall into him. The familiar lean lines of his body rubbed against her chest. She stayed there, her body refusing to let go, nestling deeper into him.

  “Mr. Watson, do you know this lady?” said a sweet, concerned female voice.

  Edward leaped back as if stung. Lady Sara approached, her furrowed brows shading her bright eyes.

  “Lady Sara, may I introduce Hen—Miss Watson. She is my…my…” Edward looked at Henrietta, his Adam’s apple dropped. Henrietta’s insides trembled. Well, what are you going to say?

  “My cousin,” he whispered, then averted his eyes.

  Everything inside Henrietta turned numb.

  Lady Sara’s friends exchanged glances, as if to say that’s her. Like Henrietta was a novel they had all read. Only Lady Sara remained composed. She took Henrietta’s hands.

  “My poor, poor dear. I was so distraught when I saw you fall. I thought I might faint myself. Are you well, Cousin Henrietta—may I call you Cousin Henrietta? For any cousin of Mr. Watson, I consider a dear cousin as well.”

  “Yes, please,” she said weakly.

  “Dear cousin, you are not well. Let us walk you home,” Lady Sara said, entwining her arm around Henrietta’s elbow.

  “No!” she cried, stumbling backward at Lady Sara’s touch. “I can’t go home. B-because I-I have to clean up. You see, Samuel, he relieved himself on the path, and everything is so clean here. And so I have to, umm, brush it away.”

  “Mr. Watson can take care of the hound.” Lady Sara gave Edward a lovely smile, the kind that would send a gentleman scurrying to scoop up dog excrement. Then she turned that smile on Henrietta. “And we shall walk you home. We must become acquainted, for I am sure we will be like sisters.”

  “Really, Cousin Henrietta, let us take you home,” Edward said. “I cannot just leave you here.”

  You’ve left me before with less concern!

  “Please just go,” Henrietta said quietly, covering her eyes, hiding her hot tears.

  “Henrietta—” Edward began.

  She turned and walked away. She could feel their shocked gazes on her back. How those ladies would laugh about her. She didn’t care. She just had to make it a few more feet around the corner.

  Out of their sight, she stumbled to a large tree and wept on its hard bark. Oh, Edward, don’t leave me. I have nothing else.

  “Is this your dog?” a male voice asked. “I saw him run away.”

  Henrietta turned, but all she could see was the blurry outline of a man and a brown blob. She wiped her eyes. It was the artist from yesterday, with Samuel sitting beside him like an obedient dog.

  “Samuel,” Henrietta cried weakly.

  The artist put a large, warm hand on her shoulder, his kind-hearted eyes gazing into hers.

  “Are you well? May I help you?” he asked.

  “You shouldn’t touch me. You shouldn’t talk to me. It’s wrong,” she whispered, still clinging to her tree.

  “By the sad standards of English society probably, but not by the universal principles of compassion and love for all living things.”

  Henrietta’s chin trembled, her throat shut tight.

  “Did you know that couple?”

  “Him,” she squeaked.

  “Oh,” he said, as if he readily comprehended the situation. She could only imagine the extent of his understanding. All kinds of lurid scenarios played out in her head, none she had the energy to correct.

  “Should I return you to your family?” he asked.

  Henrietta blinked in confusion. Did he know her father?

  “The people you were with yesterday. Is that your mother?”

  “No. I am her companion.”

  “Shall I return you, then?”

  Henrietta shook her head and tightened her grip on the tree.

  He tried a new tactic. “Would you like some chocolate? I have some chocolate from Belgium in a jar by my easel. There is a bench there. You can sit.”

  He took her elbow, cautiously separating her from the tree as if she were an injured animal. “Come, come,” he assured her.

  He led her along the water to a wooden bench, carved with people’s names and spotted with bird excrement. A few inches from the water, his easel stood, one brash stroke of blue streaked across the canvas. He rooted through a faded, cracked leather satchel and brought out a thin, delicately painted teacup and a jar of chocolate. He set the teacup on the bench beside her, filled it, then handed it to her. She traced the teacup’s delicate gold painting with her thumbnail.

  “It’s from Venice. I’ve lost its mates. Perhaps I shouldn’t have carried them around in an old satchel.” He sat down on the ground at her feet, raising up one knee and holding it with his rough, wrinkled fingers.

  She didn’t say anything, just studied the deep chocolate swirling in her cup.

  “Can you describe this sky? I can’t capture it,” he said, his light blue, hooded eyes squinting at the sky.

  Henrietta gazed at the coal-ridden clouds being carried by the wind over her head. “It’s a blue that wants to be blue, but can’t be blue because all this gray dust and clouds perpetually block it. It longs just to be blue, but it can’t.”

  “It is the confusion that confounds me.”

  “Do you sell many paintings?”

  This made him laugh, a free, deep belly chuckle. “I’m no artist. No J.M.W. Turner. I hope you don’t think that. My painting is a philosophical exercise.”

  “How?”

  “Learning to look at the world and let it be. The sky in London is restless and nervous. In Germany, a blue sky breaks forth only in the summer. It is bold, adamant to have its day. In Italy, the blue sky glows vibrant and free over the ocean, refusing to be clouded. And the blue sky is endless in the Americas, as if there was nowhere else in the world.”

  “You’ve painted all those skies?”

  “Poorly, yes.”

  Henrietta looked closely at his weather-beaten face. He was quite handsome, actually, and younger than she had assumed. Despite the wild mass of white hair on his head and graying beard, his body was robust and wiry.

  “Where have you been?” he asked. “Where has Lady Kesseley taken you?”

  She stiffened. Had she said Lady Kesseley’s name? “Nowhere. I’m actually her neighbor,” she said cautiously.

  “Near Wrenthorpe?”

  She didn’t reply.

  The philosopher didn’t seem to notice. He looked away from her, down at the water where Samuel prowled about the shore, barking at the two male swans squawking and hissing at each other.

  “Is Lady Kesseley, is she—” He paused, considering his words. “Is she very happy?”

  Henrietta returned the teacup. “Thank you for the chocolate, but I have to go.”

  “Of course,” he replied. “I hear the snap of societal rules like twigs under our feet.”

  ***

  Samuel seemed more sedate on the way home, his head bowed, somehow sensing that at any moment, Henrietta might break down in the street, weeping to the girl selling oranges.

  Ever
ything was lost. She had to go home. No one wanted her in London. But someone most certainly wanted Henrietta at home—to be his wife. Now it loomed like some inevitable fate.

  How could she marry Mr. Van Heerlen knowing the heady excitement of losing herself in Edward’s lips, drifting in his arms, coming the closest to perfect she had ever been? Did she have to pretend for the rest of her life that Mr. Van Heerlen’s kisses fulfilled her? Could she pretend love in the intimacy of their marriage bed? Ladies had for years. Perhaps men were easily deceived, but she couldn’t see how. Kesseley would never be so naive.

  For several minutes, she stood outside the house on Curzon Street, trying to get the courage to walk back into the disaster. Perhaps Kesseley and his mama were away, and she could make a beeline for her chamber without having to talk with anyone.

  Unfortunately, Lady Kesseley stood in the hall, waiting, as if she had seen Henrietta coming.

  “Miss Watson, when I said you could go to the park, I did not mean alone! This is not Norfolk. There are dangerous men in the park who could—”

  Henrietta held up her hand, stopping her. “I’m going home. Tomorrow. I won’t be in the way anymore. I’m sorry for everything. P-please have Boxly arrange a post.” Typically Henrietta would have been horrified to break down in tears before Lady Kesseley, but by this point, she had no pride left and just trudged up the stairs, letting the tears trickle down like rain.

  Samuel followed her. And when she fell on her little alcove bed, he crawled in beside her, causing the bed to sag. He licked her face, making hurt, whimpering dog sounds. She hugged the old hound, crying into his brown fur until she finally found the sweet refuge of sleep.

  ***

  Kesseley walked down to New Bond Street, his body a boiling stew of anger, frustration, hurt and other emotions he couldn’t separate. How could he have been so stupid, so foolish, so blind?

  What magic did she have over him? This was beyond hope. Henrietta was an obsession he was powerless against. Perhaps he was like his father in that respect, even though it pained him to admit he shared anything in common with that monster. Except, unlike his father’s dissipation, Kesseley’s pursuits and habits only hurt himself.

  So Kesseley was headed to Boodles, if just to sit there and keep himself safe from her.

  Activity pulsed about him on the streets. Everywhere people crammed together, yet strangely solitary, rarely acknowledging each other as they hurried on. Barefooted children darted through the crowds, dogs at their heels. Over them all, the bell of the muffin man rang out, and the coarse voices of the pie vendors sang out their offerings Kesseley had always hated London, but today, the city felt as if it folded him into its dark, filthy arms.

  To spite Henrietta, he veered off onto Cork Street and glanced in the window of Schweitzer and Davidson. A gaggle of dandies lounged inside. Was this what she wanted? Some thoughtless tulip who cared more for the lay of his coat than the ragged child crouched on the pavement under the window?

  He reached into his pocket and gave the poor waif a coin.

  To hell with her.

  Thoughts in this vein kept him occupied all the way down St. James to the great white bay window of Boodle’s.

  The door swung open, and two fashionably dressed bucks leaped onto the pavement, each holding ducks, their faces alight with secretive mischievousness. Tucking the ducks under their coats, they ran down the street on a seemingly urgent mission. Kesseley watched them leave, then stepped inside.

  The porter leaped from around his desk and grabbed Kesseley’s arm. “Deliveries are made in the back!” He spun Kesseley around to the door.

  “Wait!” Kesseley dug in his heels, refusing to be moved. The porter’s face flushed with panic. He snapped his fingers three times, and his menacing, overgrown assistant appeared from behind a false door.

  “You need some help?” the assistant growled.

  Just then a tall, gawky fellow with bright red hair and freckles ran into the entrance hall, a duck tucked in the crook of his elbow. Ronald Buckweathers! Kesseley’s old mate from Trinity.

  Bucky stopped when he saw his old friend, that toothy good-for-nothing smile Kesseley remembered spreading across his thin face.

  “Well, hell’s tinker. It’s about time you darkened these doors. Here, hold this, good man.” Bucky shoved his duck into the assistant’s big hands. Then he gave Kesseley a big, back slapping embrace that turned into a brotherly sort of wrestling match causing them to collide with a portly gentleman who had just entered the club.

  “Buckweathers! Contain yourself,” the man barked. “Does your uncle know you are here?”

  Bucky bowed, then rose quickly, giving Kesseley a sly punch on the shoulder. “Your Grace, this is my old chum from Cambridge. The Earl of Kesseley. I sponsored him here two years ago.”

  Kesseley bowed politely to the unknown duke. He was a pudgy fellow, his broad cloth coat barely able to cover his protruding belly. His face was schooled in a sour expression, but there was a bright twinkle in his eyes.

  The flustered porter bowed like one of those prostrate holy men in the east. “Your Grace, my profuse apologies.” Then he turned to Kesseley and Buckweathers and said, “Perhaps I can show you to the undress dining room—”

  The corpulent duke huffed indignantly. “Don’t put Lord Kesseley in the dirty room! What are you thinking, man?” He put his chubby arm possessively around Kesseley, as if to draw him into his confidence. “I’m expanding my hops, you see. Been wanting to talk to you. I’ve read your articles in the Journal of Agriculture. Impressive. Very impressive. You have a fine mind.”

  “Pardon?” Kesseley said, unsure of the identity of his new friend.

  “Houghton, the Duke of Houghton,” he said brusquely as an army of waiters hustled in, all donned in matching black breeches and coats. They made quick work of removing coats, hats and gloves. His Grace kept on talking about swine through the process.

  Kesseley asked the duke several basic questions about curing methods and feed composition, trying to get an understanding of the duke’s spread as the porter led them up the grand stone staircase, past the paintings of old race horses. The duke kept a hand behind Kesseley’s neck, holding him captive, while Buckweathers tagged behind.

  They passed into the salon, a grand room, over a story high with ornate pilasters lining the buff walls. Above them, paintings of scantily clad Grecian beauties looked down from the molded ceiling. By the dark marble fireplace, a young buck stood on a chair, holding a large leather-bound book and a ridiculous peacock’s plume. Below him, young bloods in handsome coats and shiny boots bounced about like excited little girls, waving their arms in the air, shouting numbers. “I’ve got Sir Giles stealing her at one thousand,” one voice rung above the others.

  “I believe this is about your daughter, Lady Sara, Your Grace,” Buckweathers said.

  “I wish one of them would steal her,” Houghton replied, then lifted a bushy brow in Kesseley’s direction. “You wouldn’t want to marry my daughter?”

  Kesseley opened his mouth to reply, but the Houghton waved his hand, silencing him. “No, it won’t take. She don’t like men with sense. I’m destined to support a worthless poet.”

  They entered the oval dining room lined with gilt mirrors and girandoles. Only a few tables were occupied in the late morning. The porter selected a gleaming round mahogany table, and the footmen ran forward with linens and tea.

  The porter bowed again before Houghton. “Your Grace, what would be your pleasure—”

  “Beefsteak, we all want beefsteak and ale.” The duke ordered for everyone.

  “Very good,” the porter agreed and left to pass along the gentlemen’s order.

  Someone in the salon raised the stakes to five thousand for Lady Sara’s hand, and a great cheer went up and echoed in the dining room. The duke shook his head.

  “Why don’t you just tell her she can’t marry that poet?” Buckweathers suggested.

  “Lady Sara is as clever a
s her mama,” the duke said. “You try to talk to them, they smile all prettily. Yes, Papa. Whatever you say, Papa. Then run off with a poet. Right now, my daughter is in the park with her dearest friends.” He let out a disbelieving snort, then leaned forward, tapping his temple. “I’ll tell you what it is. We’ve found that Fairfax lady’s novels hidden in her room. Never let your ladies read gothic novels. It gives them strange ideas.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Kesseley said wholeheartedly.

  The duke squinted at Kesseley, assessing him. “I like you,” he said finally. “You’re not one of those fops, like that poet gentleman. Can’t stand them.”

  Tea arrived. Houghton sat back in his chair and tapped his knee. “I’ve got about a hundred swine, and I’m looking to expand one hundred more. I would value your expertise.”

  So three hours were consumed on the merits of different breeds of swine, another two across the street at Brooks’s discussing barn and chute designs, then three more hours over dinner at White’s on the scientific theories of curing and transporting pig parts. Dusk encroached outside the large window of White’s when the duke stood to take his leave of Kesseley and Buckweathers.

  “Are you going to Lady Huntly’s ball this evening?” he asked Kesseley, pulling his vest down over his belly.

  “Yes, I think my mother mentioned it.”

  “Good. I’ll be there. I’ll make sure Lady Sara wears her prettiest gown,” he said and parted, nodding to his acquaintances as he quitted the room.

  Bucky’s face turned pink under his freckles, and he bit his lips to keep from bursting until the duke was out of earshot.

  “Kesseley, you are the luckiest damn fellow in London.”

  He shrugged. “I would be interested to see his hops plan in manifest. It’s hard to say how it will work without actually seeing his estate.”

  “Of course, you’ll see it! Because he’ll be your father-in-law! I can’t believe he straight up asked if you would marry his daughter.”

  “He didn’t mean it.”

  “Hell, he did!”

  “I can assure you, of all the ladies in London, I am not interested in Lady Sara.”

  “How can you say that? She’s rich, respectable and more beautiful than any actress or ballet dancer or courtesan in England. I bet there ain’t an eligible man in here that ain’t in love with her.”