by Susanna Ives
A shout from the neighboring mews tore Henrietta from her dream, and she bolted up. The gray morning sun shone through the thin curtains. It was just a dream.
Pi really was 3.14159265.
And Kesseley didn’t love her anymore.
She closed her eyes, feeling a dull, sickening feeling wash over her insides. Henrietta heard Kesseley’s door open and the steady rhythm of his footsteps as he passed her door and continued down the stairs. Then she heard the thud of the front door closing.
She laid her head on her knees and wrapped her arms about her. She remembered what Mr. Elliot had said about only having this very instant, like the light shimmering across the blue water one afternoon. But she hated this moment and wanted nothing more than to escape it. She couldn’t go forward or back. Everything crushed together to this one moment of agonizing hurt and regret.
She heard a scratching sound, and the door opened. Samuel cautiously padded in, his head low and the fur above his eyes crumpled. He climbed into bed with Henrietta and curled up in her lap.
***
A little before noon, Lady Winslow and the princess arrived. Henrietta, who had spent the morning hiding in her room, took the stairs slowly, sliding her shoulder along the wall, hearing their voices below. As she crossed to the parlor, Lady Kesseley’s distraught voice cried, “Are you saying that my son left the Cyprian Ball last night to fight Sir Gilling and four other men, bare-fisted in a dirty alley like rats?”
Henrietta gripped the doorframe to the parlor, unsure of her knees to keep her upright.
The princess sat on the sofa beside Lady Kesseley, cooing soothingly and patting Lady Kesseley’s clenched hands. Lady Winslow stood by the mantel, her face hard as a soldier’s, reporting the unwanted news.
“My son is not like this—he isn’t. It must be me. I must disappoint him so.”
Her words stabbed Henrietta. She wanted to scream, No, it’s me. I did it. I kissed him in the corridor, yet told him that he wasn’t the one I wanted. I am the one who disappointed him. Instead, Henrietta dug her fingers into the stucco of the doorframe to keep herself steady.
“Tommie est un homme. He only thinks when his penis is down. When it is up…well.”
“I certainly hope you are not trying to make me feel better,” Lady Kesseley snapped at the princess.
“Hush now, darling,” Lady Winslow said, coming to embrace her friend.
Henrietta imagined Kesseley’s fingers—the same square ones that gently opened the tender leaves of a corn plant breaking through the soil, or covered her eyes and guided her to a wildflower garden he had planted when he was twelve—laid upon courtesans he didn’t even know until last evening. Something sacred inside of her was ripped out and scattered into the dirty street.
“Come with us tonight,” Lady Winslow said, letting her friend rest her head on her thin shoulders. “We shall have a small little dinner chez moi, then perhaps a play, just like we used to. You will go mad listening to your own mind, wondering where your son is.”
“I never wanted to feel like this again.”
“Dearest, you couldn’t hold him forever. You did the best you could. He is his father’s son. You could see it in his eyes. The same gray. It was a matter of time.”
Henrietta didn’t remember much of the late Lord Kesseley. Most of her memories were of Kesseley himself, turning up at her house uninvited, his face pale and eyes hurt. He wouldn’t say anything, just sit beside her. It had made her frustrated and angry that he wasn’t her old laughing friend. On those days, her mother would remind her to be especially kind to Kesseley and let him turn the old, brass Armillary sphere.
Henrietta rubbed her mother’s pendant, wishing she could be as wise. None of this would have happened if she had been wiser, more compassionate, more intuitive, more everything.
Instead, her foolishness had unleashed an angry ghost who refused to be forgotten, readily pulling his son back to him.
***
Kesseley felt London rushing around him—the people, horses, carriages, wagons, pulsing through the city’s arteries. Even without sleep, he felt lifted. Everything so vivid, its dirt, grime and beauty crowding his senses, pushing Wrenthorpe farther away in his mind. He knew the wheat would be about six inches from the ground now and that the ewes carried new babies in their bellies. Even so, it didn’t seem real, like a book he’d once read.
London was like a merchant with endless fancy trinkets for sale, always something the customer desired. A city of beautiful ladies, brandy and gambling hells. Maybe he shouldn’t get married this Season. He was just twenty-five. His father hadn’t gotten chained until he was thirty-three.
Thinking of the onerous possibility of marriage, he knew he owed Lady Sara a morning call because he’d danced with her twice the evening before. That was the only thing tainting his day, and it was Henrietta’s fault, goading him to behave so imprudently. He would take the bitter medicine first—fifteen minutes at the Duke of Houghton’s—then go bury himself in his club for the remainder of the day to recover.
He stopped before a shop window and checked his reflection. The swelling had gone down on his lip, but he was going to get a scar from that nasty gash on his brow. Cutting through Green Park, he thought of melodramatic excuses for his appearance to excite the cracked gel’s little romantic fantasies. Even though he had no intentions of marrying, he wanted to keep Lady Sara dangling for a bit longer. He felt a little residual anger from her earlier ill treatment, but most importantly, he wanted Henrietta to know the bitter sting of being rejected for another.
He smiled to himself as he pondered what gothic drivel would fan Lady Sara’s passions. He could have been robbed by a footpad demanding a gold locket that he carried close to his heart, containing the miniature of an old love who’d died tragically in his arms. In blinding rage, he’d fought off the attackers with little regard for his own life.
Not very believable, but a good story. Henrietta would like it, he thought, as he was announced at the grand mansion off the park.
***
Kesseley couldn’t tell if he’d been invited into a parlor or flower garden. Flowers sat on every surface, large elaborate arrangements with chrysanthemums, lilies and geraniums. Had all London woken with a compulsion to send Lady Sara flowers that morning?
Lady Sara sat on the sofa beside her mother, an older version of her daughter—same hair, eyes and stature. When Kesseley entered, Lady Sara stood and shyly lifted her gaze to his face, then let out a soft gasp. “No,” she cried, holding the back of her palm over her mouth. She closed her eyes and collapsed onto the floor. Her gown draped perfectly over the curves of her beautiful figure and her blond locks splayed like a halo around her head.
“Oh, my most delicate precious!” her mother cried, falling to her knees in a similar dramatic fashion. She gazed up at Kesseley and pleaded with tear-filled eyes for him to do something.
He stood momentarily stunned. Had he walked into a Punch and Judy act?
There was a rustling of leaves and the duke emerged from the floral undergrowth. He looked down at his prostrate daughter. “Sara, stop that! Get up.”
“My dear!” his wife cried. “She was overcome with Lord Kesseley’s appearance!”
Upon hearing his name, he jolted forward, suddenly remembering his lines. He knelt before Lady Sara. How delicately beautiful she looked unconscious, her claws retracted. He lifted her. Her neck curved over his arm and displayed a succulent jaw line, the kind for nibbling kisses.
She opened her heavy eyes and murmured, “Lord Kesseley!” then swooned again, burying herself in his chest. He played the proper gothic hero she wanted and gently laid her upon the cushions, even brushed the curls from her eyes. Her limp hand found his. “You frightened me, my lord,” she said, a shiver in her whisper.
“A thousand apologies, my lady. I’ll leave immediately.”
For a faint thing, she had a strong grip, holding him in place. “Don’t leave me, my lord!”
&n
bsp; “Dear God!” the duke said, taking a seat beside a chrysanthemum. “Why do I spend hundreds of pounds on boxes at the theatres when we could stay home and have more drama.”
“Your Grace! You have such little regard for a lady’s delicate nerves.” The duchess fanned her daughter with her fingers. “Oh my lovely, don’t listen to your papa. Shall Lord Kesseley read to you?”
“Oh yes, my lord, please read to me. Poetry about death and birth and flux and change, just not love. For you do not believe in love.”
“Now, we talked about this! I told you not to make Lord Kesseley read dribble,” the duke reminded his daughter. “Kesseley, why don’t you read that article of yours about turnips and manuring.” He lifted up a flowerpot and pulled out the Journal of Agriculture. “Here it is.”
He was given a chair beside Lady Sara and opened the journal right to his article. Little pressed lavender flowers fell out.
It felt awkward reading his own words aloud, especially with Lady Sara staring at him adoringly with those bright eyes of hers, and her sweet voice complimenting his elocution while he read about nitrogen depletion in soil. He skipped entire sections. No one seemed to notice that he never fully explained excretion theory. He had far exceeded the fifteen minutes he had allocated for the visit when he closed the journal.
“It has been a pleasure, my lady, but it would be quite ungentlemanly of me to further press upon your delicate health.”
The duke, who had been sleeping with his head drooped down upon his big chest, suddenly sprung up. “Let’s play a game of billiards.”
Kesseley clenched his jaws to keep an expletive from escaping. He smiled tightly and followed the duke up the expansive staircase winding around the great hall to a room with enormous arched windows that looked on to a narrow terrace. An inlaid oak billiard table stood in the center of the room.
The duke stacked up the balls, then leaned his large frame over the edge of the table, one eye closed, the other looking down the long pole at the cue ball. “So what do you think of my daughter?” He broke the balls in one clean stroke, sending them all over the table. The one ball dropped in the left pocket.
“She’s very pretty,” Kesseley said.
The duke lined up his next shot. “She’s a little fanciful, but she’ll settle down well enough on a strong man’s arm and with a brood of her own.” He sank the three into the hole.
“Excellent shot.”
The duke smiled, walked around the table and pocketed the seven, then the five. “Now I know you like the ladies as much as myself. And there ain’t a reason marriage should change any of life’s more pleasurable pursuits. Sara will be like her mama and look the other way to any dabbling in the petticoat line. You keep her in pretty clothes and things, and she won’t give you any trouble. She knows her duty.”
He banked the cue ball and sank the four. “It’s no secret her dowry is 20,000. But for the right match, I might be inclined to sweeten the deal.” He merely tapped the cue to roll the two ball in. “I’ve got a ball in a week. We could make the announcement then. The wedding could take place in the late summer, before hunting season. You think about it.”
Kesseley felt his mouth go dry. “I-I will.”
The duke nudged Kesseley’s elbow as he passed. “Get your case together and we can talk. I like you. You know what’s what.” He knocked the left edge of the six ball. It spun and bounced off the edge of the pocket and fell in the hole. “Now watch, I’m going to put the eight ball in the back right pocket.” The duke lined up his shot, pulled back his pole, then slid it over his thumb, smooth and quick. The eight ball flew across the table and sank. He smiled at his own prowess.
***
Kesseley fled the duke’s house like wolves were at his heels. He revisited the conversation, looking for any slip, any phrase that could be misunderstood as an intention to marry Lady Sara. His heart was flip-flapping with fear, just imagining a life shackled to her.
He slipped into a gambling hell on St. James. Passing the money collectors waiting in the front room, he disappeared into the paneled parlors filled with the haze of smoke and the smell of spirits. All the wall sconces and chandeliers were lit, illuminating paintings of pale-skinned goddess baring their breasts. He found a corner table and downed a brandy, feeling the gaze of a raven-haired lady on him. He raked his eyes over her. She was small, trim, with straight hair falling down in wisps. Her pale skin and dark eyes reminded him of Henrietta and anger swelled inside him.
He shook his head. Sorry, no black-haired beauties for him.
Bucky and some of his friends found Kesseley on the fourth brandy, and they removed to the faro table. Bucky quickly lost fifty pounds and had to leave the game, but Kesseley remained, drinking more, spending the afternoon losing and winning back three hundred pounds. He gambled until he grew bored, finding easy diversion in a vibrant redhead and a green-eyed blonde who sauntered in and sat beside their raven-haired friend. She glowered at Kesseley, still stung by his rejection. What the hell? She was a courtesan. It was just business. She was selling herself, and he wasn’t interested in the merchandise.
The three ladies exchanged some words. The raven-haired chit shook her head. The redhead shrugged, and she and her blonde friend approached the table, leaving their dark friend behind.
“Pardon, are you Lord Kesseley?” the pretty redhead asked very sweetly.
His gaze flickered back to their friend. She looked away, angry. “Is that who you want? Lord Kesseley?”
Red looked flustered, as if she had made a mistake. Kesseley took her hand and kissed her smooth, cool skin, but kept his gaze on the black-haired lightskirt. She wasn’t going to look at him. “I am Kesseley. But I do not know who you are.”
Lydia. The blonde was Aimee with the French spelling.
“Our friend, Josephine, is in a play off Drury Lane this evening,” French Aimee said with a heavy Yorkshire accent. She nodded her head to the angry, dark friend, who turned her head at the sound of her name.
“We have a box and desire some company,” Aimee continued, her eyes sweeping across the table to include Bucky and his friends. They eagerly accepted.
Kesseley did not. He locked his gaze on Josephine’s chocolate eyes. Not as glittery as Henrietta’s, but rather skittish.
“Your friends are coming,” Lydia urged him.
“I may have other plans,” he said, then cocked his head, speaking loud enough for Josephine to hear. “Is your friend a good actress? Will I be amused? Or will she waste my time?”
The men at the table blew low whistles over their cards. Josephine pulled her reticule off the table and walked out.
“I think I will go to the play after all,” Kesseley said, watching her retreating back.
***
In the afternoon, Henrietta exchanged her sacklike morning dress for an equally unappealing evening gown, intending to sit in the darkness of a theatre box and pass the evening pretending to be invisible. She watched the front door, waiting for Kesseley to come home. Although she didn’t know what she would say except I love you and I’m sorry. The ladies took the carriage to Lady Winslow’s for dinner. She lived in a quaint townhome on Cavendish Square, smaller than Lady Kesseley’s.
The ground-floor rooms resembled over-stuffed closets of objets d’art. Henrietta could scarce see the parlor walls for all the paintings and illustrations. The tables were cluttered with colorful glass vases and interesting sculptures. She could spend the evening sitting in this room, silently taking in each piece.
Unfortunately she was quickly ushered into the dining room, where the portrait of a rather small intense man with intellectual eyes presided over the dinner table. Lady Winslow sat beneath him.
When she asked about the striking gentleman, Lady Winslow’s face softened and she replied, “My husband.” Then she flicked her wrist to a portrait hanging over the princess’s head. It was a man in hunting clothes beside a horse. “And that was the other one,” she said flatly.
Af
ter dinner, they headed out for an “intimate” little theatre off Drury Lane.
They had to wait behind the carriages headed for Haymarket before they cut through the small, winding Drury Lane. Soon they came to a stop in front of a shadowy, brown building with cracked painted plaster where people entered a low door lit by a single gas torch.
Inside, the fashionable, intellectual and artistic wearily eyed each other as they squeezed into a dimly lit salon smelling of the tallow and dirty carpet, waiting on the door to the theatre to open.
“Henrietta!” a surprised male voice called. She turned to see Edward edging through the shoulders toward her.
Lady Winslow arched a questioning brow at Henrietta. “The poet?”
“Good evening, cousin.” Edward bowed stiffly, his eyes roving about as if looking for someone. “I do not see Kesseley.”
“He is not here.”
Edward let out a relieved breath. “How are you this evening?”
“Very well, thank you,” she lied. “And yourself?”
“Well, I suppose.” But he wasn’t, and his cheerful façade melted away, pain filling his large green eyes. He swallowed and looked at his hands. “I’ve been roaming about the town, writing poetry—dark stuff. I don’t even know why I do it. Did you not see the reviews of my book? It seems I’m the worst poet ever. I just didn’t know what else to do.”
Lady Winslow overheard. “Might I comment upon your poetry, Mr. Watson?” she said before Henrietta could introduce her.
“Please don’t.”
Lady Winslow barreled on. “I do not like your poems.”
“You are not unique in your opinion, ma’am,” he said tersely, turning to Henrietta, thereby giving Lady Winslow his back.
Lady Winslow continued unfazed. “But I think you possess great talent, Mr. Watson, a talent perhaps picked before it had time to bloom. I daresay the poems that you have written this day in your despair may show your true depths. Many artists only discover themselves in their darkest time.”