***
Henry did not expect any further surprises that day. An enormous bank draft and a country household run by phantom mermaids were surely eventful enough.
Which was why, when he was sitting at the morning room’s desk practicing his penmanship in an endless string of AEIOUs and sometimes Ys too, he was only concerned with trying to ignore the feeling of being watched by the painted figures in the room’s mural. The goddess Athena had the look of a wretched termagant.
A tap at the door caught him unawares.
“Come,” he called. He sanded his paper, then turned to see who had entered.
“Bart.” Henry blinked. “You’re back in London? I thought you’d be shooting partridge around Beckworth by now.”
Bart held a high-crowned beaver hat behind his back, tapping its fashionably wide brim against the backs of his knees. “Oh, well. I wanted to see how things went with the letter. My letter. Ah, the one I wrote to Mrs. Whittier.”
“As well as you can imagine. We’re getting married in a few days. Maybe you didn’t know, since I sent word to Beckworth.”
“Are you? That’s excellent. Well done, Hal.” Tap, tap, tap, went the hat behind his back.
Henry’s brow furrowed. “Bart, you’ve never been a good liar. I can see you’ve heard the news already. And you’re going to mar the shape of what I’m sure is a very fashionable hat if you keep whacking at the brim. What’s going on?”
Bart stared at the floor, then said in a rush, “I understand if you don’t want me at your wedding—”
“What?”
“—because our friendship’s fallen by the wayside in recent years.”
Henry held up his hand. “Bart. Wait. I didn’t keep up any friendships in recent years. It just wasn’t possible while I was in the military. It had nothing to do with you or our friendship.”
The hat flipped in Bart’s hands, fumbled, fell to the ground. “Sorry,” Bart said in a tight voice as he bent and retrieved his hat. His face was redder when he stood than one might have expected, considering he’d only been bent over for a second or two.
As if he’d been rapped on the head with a candle, light dawned in Henry’s mind. Bart felt hurt. And if the situations were reversed, Henry might well have felt the same. How else would he react if an old friend returned after years of silence, let him learn of a serious injury by chance, then largely avoided his company in Town?
It had nothing to do with Bart, just as Henry had said. But maybe he understood his old friend better than ever now. Just as quiet Bart always had, Henry now knew the feeling of separation within a crowd, of light pleasantries weighing heavily on a mind distracted.
And Bart, like Jem and Emily, remembered Henry’s best self. He gave Henry another chance to reach out and remember it himself. Bart’s unquestioning loyalty meant all the more after Henry’s long separation from everyone he knew.
“Bart,” Henry said. His old friend had begun to turn toward the door. “Bart, to whom did I entrust the first letter to Frances?”
Bart turned back to Henry, looking puzzled.
“You, Bart. I trusted you. I knew Frances thought you a kind man, and she would value a letter from you. Your friendship is worth a great deal.” Henry smiled. “To me.”
Bart’s face reddened. “Oh, well. It was—I mean, I was happy to do it.”
“Thank you. I am very grateful for that.” Henry nodded. “For everything.”
It was not the most articulate thanks, but he hoped Bart would understand. If Henry was any more effusive, he would embarrass them both.
“I’m afraid,” Henry continued, idly straightening papers on the desk, “that I can’t hunt anymore. But I’d still be pleased to go to Beckworth next autumn.”
Bart scuffed a booted foot in the carpet and gave a rascally grin. “That’s no kind of a problem, Hal. You can help the hounds retrieve the game.”
Henry chuckled. “I’ve been a son of a bitch to you often enough. That might be the perfect way to repay me.”
Bart laughed, ducking his head. “Well. I’ll see you next hunting season then. I suppose you’re busy today.”
“Not so busy. Emily’s working herself into a frenzy over my wedding preparations and won’t allow me to do a thing. There’s nothing in the world that makes her happier than mild domestic chaos.” Henry motioned toward a chair. “Please, sit.”
With another tap of his hat against his legs, Bart sidled to a chair and perched at the edge of it.
“I’ll probably see you again long before next autumn,” Henry said. “In fact, if you don’t have to head to Beckworth immediately, I’d be honored if you’d stay in London to attend the wedding. It will be just for family, here at Tallant House.”
“Do you mean it?” Bart leaned forward. The chair tipped, upsetting his balance, and he spent a few chagrined seconds rearranging himself into a dignified posture.
“Yes, of course. Though I should warn you, Emily is determined that any gentleman who attends should wear a striped cravat. She insists they are—”
Together, Henry and Bart chorused, “All the crack.”
Bart laughed. “She’s right, you know.”
Henry raised his hand in a gesture of surrender. He didn’t know these things. But it didn’t matter. He’d relearn it all in time, as much as he needed to.
Bart twirled his hat on his forefinger. “Do you have time for one more ride in the curricle before you settle down?”
“I’m sure there’s time for that,” Henry said.
“Where shall we go?”
The old question. Henry remembered running free, not caring what the answer was.
He didn’t really care now. Anywhere would be just fine.
“I don’t know.” Henry let a grin spread across his face. “Where would you like to go? We’ll go anywhere you like.”
As Bart grinned back, Henry snapped his fingers in a gesture of remembrance. “As long as we stop at Gunter’s on the way back. If we drive hell for leather across Berkeley Square, we might be able to bring Jem home an ice before it melts.”
“So we shall,” said Bart. “I say, would you care to drive the team?”
***
Henry drove the team. They never broke out of a walk, and horses and men all survived, though the ice was almost completely melted by the time it arrived at Tallant House. Still, Lord Tallant devoured it with indecorous glee.
Four days later, Henry did not wear a striped cravat. Yet he and Frances still contrived to be married.
Jem manfully choked back tears during the brief ceremony, and Frances beamed up into Henry’s face as he clasped her hands together. She was swathed in white satin, pale as cloud. Hair dark as earth, eyes steady as a tree.
He could not help his flight of fancy as he spoke his vows. She was his world.
After they were pronounced man and wife, the newlyweds and their few guests piled into the dining room for a wedding breakfast that Emily assured them would possess all the pomp missing from the ceremony itself.
She was right. Henry looked over piles of brioche and cakes and eggs and sliced meats with a wondering eye.
“What do you think?” Emily said to Henry in a low voice, as Jem began to pour chocolate out of a silver pot as neatly as any footman.
Henry thought there was far too much food for only a half-dozen people—the same half dozen, in fact, who’d come to dine at Tallant House, cheat at cards, and criticize Henry’s fireplace screen.
How much they had been through since then.
“Thank you, Emily. You are very kind.” He offered her a smile, knowing she would consider his gratitude the best repayment for her efforts. Not just now. Always. You are very kind.
“Chocolate, Em?” Jem held out a cup. Emily pulled a face and shook her head. “Lady Stratton, then?”
Caro took the cup from him as they all arranged themselves around the laden table. “I simply have to tell you all something, though it may not be dignified enough for the occasion
.”
“Ah—do we have to be dignified today?” Frances made a mock frown. “I hadn’t planned on that. After we’re done with breakfast, I thought we would all dance a hornpipe on the table.”
“Or a minuet,” Henry said, nudging his foot into hers under the table until rose stained her cheeks. Henry felt her toes flex within her thin slippers, as if they were turning together again in the center of a ballroom, with eyes only for each other.
Caro set her cup down on the table with a hollow clink. “Dance if you must, but for heaven’s sake, hear me out. You’ll all adore this. Two days ago, I was looking through the sweetest china shop, trying to find a vase to replace the one I was unfortunately required to throw. And who should walk in, just as I was lifting the vase up to look at the potter’s marks?”
Bart spluttered into his tea. “Not Wadsworth.”
Caro nodded. “Exactly. As soon as he clapped eyes on me—well, I’ve never seen a man turn so pale or spin on his heel so quickly.”
Henry laughed. “Jittery, is he?”
“Awfully. I don’t suppose he’ll be able to look at a tree for some time either after what you did to him, Henry.”
Emily took a dainty bite from a slice of brioche. “I can’t say I’ve got any sympathy for the man. He’s had undeserved good luck, timing his humiliations for the end of the season. By next spring, everyone will have forgotten them.”
“He won’t forget,” Caro said. “I will do my utmost to make sure of that. Nearly every house has a vase in its drawing room. I only hope I happen to call on someone at the same time as Wadsworth. I shall draw my fingers across the vase and watch him turn pale as a fish belly. It will be…” She bared her straight teeth. “Smashing.”
Before Henry could reply, Sowerberry ushered in two violinists and a man carrying an ivory flute. “As you requested, my lady,” the butler said with a bow to Emily.
“What is this, Em?” Jem asked.
“A little surprise for our newlyweds,” Emily said, failing to keep a pleased smile from her face. “You’ve only ever had one dance. You simply must have one more before you leave London. It’s my wedding present to you.”
Frances set her cup down so quickly that a drop of coffee sloshed over the edge. “I was only joking, my lady—Emily. I really didn’t plan to dance a hornpipe this morning. Especially not on the table.”
Emily dismissed this protest with a wave of her hand. “Not that. But you haven’t danced for weeks. You simply must dance on your wedding day.”
Jem choked on a bite of eggs. “Not in the dining room, surely.” Stuffed into the corners of the dining room, the three musicians were beginning to look uncomfortable.
Henry didn’t feel uncomfortable at all. At last, he felt a blessed certainty. He’d returned home at last, and he’d carry it with him always.
“No, indeed,” Emily said. “When everyone’s eaten their fill, we’ll return to the drawing room.”
Frances lifted her eyebrows at Henry, and he nodded. Certainly, he could dance today.
“All right,” she agreed with a wicked half smile. “If Mr. Middlebrook cares to invite me to stand up with him, I suppose I’ll agree.”
Caro looked equally mischievous. “Bart, we can have that waltz at last, since you won’t be pressed into service at the pianoforte this morning.”
Bart fumbled his fork. “Yes. Yes, absolutely we could. I’d be—it would be my honor.” He turned the pale pink of a tomato’s inside.
“Glad you stayed for the wedding?” Henry murmured to his old friend, and Bart shot him a sideways glance, a smile.
This room contained Henry’s family, the people most precious to him in the world. Jem and Emily. Bart, close as a second brother. And today it had grown to include Caro, and—dearest of all—Frances herself.
Twang.
Oh. And those three musicians too. One of the violinists had shifted his instrument, clearly wondering when the quality were going to cease this bizarre, buoyant behavior.
Certainly not today.
“I think,” Henry said, “I’d like to dance with my wife now. Frances, do you agree?”
He held out his hand to her, and she took it at once, pushing her chair back in a swift scrape and allowing Henry to pull her to her feet. Lovely as any painting. Art come to life.
“I do.”
Epilogue
March 1816
“A letter for you, Henry,” Frances called as she carried the post past the east wall of Winter Cottage, trailing her hand on its rough stone exterior.
Henry was, as usual, in the garden. He was to be found there every day, unless the weather was cold enough to thicken his paints into uselessness. His art students found many more subjects for study outdoors than in. Besides, he wanted to spare Frances the smell of the turpentine used to clean his brushes whenever they worked in oils.
She brushed through dried grass and found the gravel path to Henry’s favorite spot for lessons, amidst a tangle of winter-sere rosebushes and a view of the ancient stone bridge that crossed the creek to the east of Winter Cottage. A frozen crust still blanketed the creek; it was too early for the damask roses to bloom. Soon, though, they would be putting forth leaves and tiny buds. Frances rubbed one of the rosebush’s waxy stems between her fingertips. This would be the first time she saw them blossom in her new home.
Crushed stone crunched under her feet as she stepped closer, alerting Henry to her presence. “Frances. Did you say something?”
He smiled as he turned from his canvas and rubbed his arm across his forehead, shoving wind-ruffled hair out of his face. His hand bristled with paintbrushes, all stained with different oils.
“Yes. You’ve got a letter, I said.” She held out the folded missive, but he shook his head.
“Go ahead and open it. I’m still packing up from Ellery Todd’s lesson. He’s got a good eye, but no interest in learning about pigment and paint. He only wants to draw nude women.”
Frances smirked. “Would you have been any different at the age of thirteen?”
“I suppose not. I’m not much different now.”
He set the fistful of brushes down on a brightly painted orange-red baroque table, the ornate piece incongruous in this outdoor setting. “Perhaps I ought to refresh my memory. How long, do you think, has it been since I saw a nude woman? At least seven or eight hours.”
He crossed the few feet to Frances and wrapped his arm around her, pinning her arms to her side. “Mmm.” He pressed his face to her neck, inhaled. “You smell… not like turpentine. Delicious.”
She laughed. “I chose the scent just for you, you silver-tongued charmer.”
After seven months of marriage, they’d fallen into a comfortable pattern that still surprised her with its easy fit. They spent a lazy—or strenuous—morning together, then taught students each afternoon. Jem and Emily had canvassed the ton for promising young artists who needed a bit more study before haunting the Royal Academy as Henry had once done.
Considering the inconvenient location of Winter Cottage just outside London—a bumpy carriage ride back and forth, plus the lesson itself, could take a student half a day—it was surprising that Henry had as many students as he wanted and more than he could take. Knowing Emily, Frances guessed that the sociable countess had pinned down interest by embroidering Henry’s military past.
That didn’t matter, though. Once proud parents got their curiosity out of the way, they left their young artists under Henry’s tutelage because of his talent. His own painting was still shaky, but his eye for color and his patience as a teacher were unmatched.
Frances’s memory was an unqualified boon, for she taught students in the history of art, and had the pleasure of being right and giving advice every day. When not teaching, she kept everything else running smoothly: scheduling students, checking stores of paints and pigments, arranging for young Cecil Sharpton to come over from nearby Sidcup to mill paints for Henry when he was getting low.
And when life r
an slowly, London was not far away. Close enough for Jem and Emily to visit. Even Caroline had come to stay once.
And Frances’s father. He’d come for Christmas, settling his rheumatic bones into a squashy armchair for several weeks and spoiling their dogs with treat after treat. The bustle of the holiday had gone a long way toward filling awkward silences and the distance of long years of separation. Frances wrote to him faithfully now. She would not be lost to him again.
Frances broke Henry’s hold around her arms and slid them around his waist, pulling his hips to hers. “Are you finished for the day? I can have one of the servants stow all of your supplies.”
He squinted in the afternoon light. Against his tanned skin, his eyes were a startling blue.
“Yes, I’ve been out here long enough. It’s chilly for March. I hadn’t noticed before.” He bumped his forehead against hers. “You must have been keeping me warm.”
“Since I was inside our house all morning while you painted with the aspiring nudist, that’s not possible.”
“Ah, but every time he asked about drawing naked women, I thought of you.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Just open your letter, you wicked man.”
He winked at her, then took the fat folded paper from her hand. His brows knit. “This can’t be right.”
“What is it?”
He flipped the letter to show her its reverse. “It’s the Great Seal. Why would I be getting a letter from the Prince Regent?”
“Because Emily hounded him into calling you to court?”
“She wouldn’t be so unkind.” He tucked the letter high under his right arm and cracked the seal with his left thumb. Such gestures were getting smoother, more natural as the months passed.
His sapphire-blue eyes flicked over the lines of the letter, then he raised his eyebrows and pulled his mouth down in the expression Frances thought of as well-there-it-is-then.
Sure enough. “Well. There it is, then.” He handed the letter to Frances.
She read the finely inscribed lines quickly. “They want to give you a medal?”
“Waterloo,” he murmured. “Always Waterloo.”
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