“You’re leaving?” Henrietta pulled off her bonnet and pelisse.
Molly took them, her eyes shining. “Tom and I are to be married on Wednesday next. You are invited to the wedding, but…,” she shrugged. “We don’t expect it.”
“Oh, Molly, of course I’ll come. I’m thrilled for you.” She grinned at her maid. “How did it happen?”
“Tom has found work in Prestwood. He came straight to me and asked me again to marry him.” She laughed. “And of course, I said yes.”
“Tom is a good man.”
Molly gazed at her. “You look a trifle peaky. Your trip to France must have exhausted you. The servants talk of nothing else. They were all concerned about you.”
Henrietta rubbed her arms and warmed herself by the fire crackling in the grate. “I am a little tired. A good cup of tea and some of Cook’s cakes will set me to rights.”
“I’ll see to it immediately.” Molly put the things away and hurried from the room.
Molly was so blissful; Henrietta couldn’t tell her about Christian. Just mentioning his name would make her cry again.
* * *
Molly and Tom’s wedding proved to be the highlight of a long, dull week. Henrietta lost herself in the lively wedding breakfast held at the Kings Arms Hotel. Then with the other guests, saw them off to their new life.
The days passed slowly at Beaumont Court as they settled into a quiet routine. Her father disappeared each day to ride his lands with his bailiff, visit tenants and his man of business. When he could, he rode up to London to be with Verity. Winter wasn’t far away the trees in the park bare of leaves. Henrietta galloped her chestnut mare, Topaz, along the canal and through the park, scattering deer. She jumped the horse over fences and hedgerows and arrived back at the house, she, and topaz both weary.
She succeeded in tiring herself physically, but not mentally. What might Christian be doing now? She tried to imagine his life in London. She didn’t know much about him. The government had sent him to France. But now that England and France were at war it was unlikely he’d return there. She hoped not.
His change of heart had been so swift and unexpected; she’d been stunned. Pain clouded her mind. She blamed herself, for her ridiculous dreams of a career on the stage. Funny that she hadn’t the slightest desire for it now. But she still couldn’t accept Christian would give her up so easily. He had displayed such courage in France, and true affection. She was sure his feelings for her were genuine. It left her puzzled and ruined any pleasure she might take from being home again.
The next morning, determined to talk about Christian, she entered the breakfast room where her father was tucking into ham and eggs. “I’ve can’t seem to make sense of why he changed his mind so suddenly,” she said, sipping her tea.
“You said it was a joint decision?” He stabbed his fork into a slice of ham.
She took a warm roll from the basket. Reached for the butter and apricot preserve. “No. It was entirely his.”
Her father shifted in his chair. “Did you ask him why?”
Henrietta’s throat tightened. She’d never been in more need of fatherly advice. “When he suggested our marriage might be a mistake, I was so hurt and shocked I hardly spoke at all.”
“My poor Hetta. I hate to see you suffering.” He pushed back his chair and came to hold her.
“Did I do something wrong?” Her tears made a damp patch on his shirt. Her father had always solved her problems when she was a child. But he could not mend this for her. She was a grown up and must deal with it herself. Even though, at this moment, she yearned to be a little girl again.
“Hetta, has it occurred to you that he might have been thinking of what was best for you?”
“Why? I don’t understand.”
“In time you may.” He held her at arm’s length, gazing down at her. His expression softened. “It’s too quiet here. You have too much time to dwell on things.”
“Yes, I hate embroidery and can’t seem to concentrate on reading.”
“Why don’t you come out with me today? I’m riding out to visit old Mr. Cornell. I’m told he’s been ill and his roof needs fixing.”
“I’d like that. I’ll bring him one of Cook’s rhubarb and apple pies.”
As Henrietta came down the stairs in her riding habit, a letter arrived. She took it from the maid servant. It was from Philippe.
Papa was at his desk in the library. She handed him the letter and leaned over his shoulder while she fussed with the feather on her riding hat.
He slit the letter open with a silver paperknife, perused it, then patted her hand. “Excellent news.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. Phillippe has received a letter from Mademoiselle Josette. She has returned to her farm. Apparently, she was found innocent of any wrong doing. Phillippe writes that a cousin of hers sat on the tribunal and influenced its outcome.”
“That is wonderful.”
“Yes, Philippe is overjoyed. Such a brave lady. She showed tremendous courage in hiding us.” He put down the letter and rose. “Let’s take that ride.”
As they rode out over the Beaumont lands, Henrietta recalled the gypsy’s words. Someone you know will die a violent death. She was relieved for Josette, a heroine in her eyes. But who was it? Not Christian, Verity or Philippe, thankfully. An alarming thought struck her. Had those life-altering predictions the gypsy spoke of already happened, or was there more to come?
The gardens at Beaumont Court were dusty with snow when Verity’s carriage arrived. Henrietta rushed out to greet her, excited to see her again. She emerged from the carriage in a blue velvet pelisse the hood lined with sable.
“Snow in October! Doesn’t the landscape look pretty?” She grinned and waved her sable muff.
How proud and happy her father looked as they walked arm in arm to the house.
“You’ve heard Marie Antoinette has been executed?” Verity asked as she removed her pelisse.
He looked grim. “Yes. Sad business.”
A special license had been purchased. The wedding was to take place in two days’ time. A quiet affair, their tenants and servants would fill the pews in the village parish church and Uncle Phillipe and her aunt would come from London.
Verity joined Henrietta in the parlor where she sat on the rug by the fire, playing with one of Juliet’s kittens. This one was mainly white with a black patch over one eye. Henrietta named him Pirate.
Verity perched on a footstool. “We haven’t had a chance to talk.”
“You’ve been a little preoccupied,” Henrietta said with a smile.
Verity blushed prettily and smoothed her skirts. “I’d like to make amends for that now.” Her eyes became serious. “It saddened me to hear that you and Christian aren’t to marry. That must have been upsetting, Henrietta. Are you, all right?”
Henrietta pressed her hands to her cheeks. Took a deep breath. “He had a change of heart, which was a shock.”
Verity frowned. “I trust he explained himself?”
Henrietta dangled a bit of wool, and the kitten jumped to hook it with his tiny claws. “He wants a quiet life. And he felt it wouldn’t suit me.”
Verity pushed a golden ringlet over her shoulder. “That was the extent of it? I find that difficult to believe.”
“Do you know, so do I?” Henrietta sat up straighter. “It doesn’t make sense. I can’t believe he was toying with me in France.”
“He was passionately in love with you while we were in France.” Verity shrugged. “Perhaps something happened here in London to change his mind.”
“But what could it be?” Henrietta frowned. “Papa says Christian thought he was doing the right thing for me. But if that is the case, he should at least have asked me.”
Verity shrugged. “Men!”
How nice it was to talk to a woman, and one of good sense like Verity. “I asked Christian to make love to me, in France, but he refused. He insisted we wait until we married.”
; “Then perhaps his sense of honor has something to do with this.”
“It’s unlikely we’ll meet again.” Henrietta chewed her bottom lip. “I suppose I’ll never know for sure. But I’m sure he did love me.”
“You could write to him.”
“Wouldn’t that be improper?” Henrietta picked up the kitten. She held the small body against her muslin bodice and stroked the soft fur. Pirate purred.
“I’m surprised you’re concerned with propriety after all you’ve been through.”
“Aunt Gabrielle will be.”
Verity laughed. “I doubt it. We French are more inclined to follow our hearts. You have French blood in your veins, Henrietta.”
Henrietta put down the cat. “I’ll write to him now.”
Sitting at her father’s desk, she took a fresh piece of bond from the drawer and dipped a quill in the inkpot. Her hand poised over the blank sheet. Words failed to come. She needed to see Christian’s face, even if his cool attitude made her suffer another blow to her pride. She put down the pen. When her aunt arrived for the wedding, she would tell her that she’d decided to return for the rest of the Season. They could take her with them to London. It served the dual purpose of giving her father and Verity some time alone.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The day after the wedding Henrietta left for London with her aunt and uncle. Her father and Verity were so happy and caught up in each other; it had been a good decision to give them some privacy. Almost as soon as they walked into her aunt’s mansion, Aunt Gabrielle began exclaiming over the invitations that had piled up in their absence. A giddy round of routs, dances and balls awaited them.
Henrietta gritted her teeth and threw herself into the social life, hoping to meet Christian somewhere along the way. She wasn’t entirely confident, however. She knew he didn’t attend many balls. She danced until her feet hurt, and went to the opera, always searching for his face among the crowd. Men paid their attentions to her, but Henrietta’s cool, disinterested manner gave them pause, and they drifted away in search of friendlier debutantes.
By Season’s end, she’d hadn’t seen him. Aunt Gabrielle expressed disappointment that Henrietta was to return to the country without one offer of marriage. She’d urged Henrietta to smile more often when she danced, but she didn’t press it. Although aware of her aunt’s worried looks, Henrietta couldn’t seem to regain her spirits.
Baroness Le Trobe’s ball closed the season, and this was the one ball Henrietta was eager to attend. She’d first danced with Christian at the baroness’ North London mansion. She took great care with her appearance, choosing her prettiest gown, a muslin embroidered with yellow flowers and a yellow sash. The maid dressed her lightly powered hair with tiny rosebuds.
But Christian didn’t come. The night drew on, and she lost hope. Not wishing to dance again, she wandered through the smoky card room where guests gathered around the gaming tables. A lady in gold silk with a low décolletage, lost at roulette. She tossed a huge, diamond and emerald broach onto the table, shrugged and left the room.
Two men commented on it.
“Countess Grey is at it again. The Count won’t be pleased,” one man said.
“No, indeed,” said the other. “But have you heard about Hartley?”
Henrietta’s paused and pretended to watch the game in progress. Her heart began to beat so hard she thought she would faint. She strained to follow their conversation as the noise in the room rose to a crescendo when someone won the broach.
“Christian Hartley, the diplomat? No, what’s the news?”
“Wounded somewhere overseas. They’ve got him home.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t sound good.”
“Poor fellow. Where was he?”
“No idea. Some smoky government business. Oh, look Barnstable has thrown his cards in. I need a word with him.”
They drifted away. Henrietta held onto the table edge as her knees threatened to give way. It couldn’t be Christian the gypsy spoke of. The one who would die? No! She would not believe it.
* * *
The next morning, Henrietta was out of bed as soon as it grew light. Confident that her aunt slept late after a ball, she dressed in a subdued navy-blue walking gown and donned a hooded cloak she borrowed from a servant. She left the house and shivered, the breeze cold on her face as she hurried through the streets to Christian’s townhouse. She ran up the steps and banged on the knocker. Minutes passed before a manservant answered. He adjusted his coat, shaving soap on his whiskers, and stared at her in surprise.
“I am here to see Mr. Hartley. He’s expecting me,” she said, brushing past him. She removed her cloak in the hall and handed it to him. “Where is he?”
“You can’t see him, Miss...?” When she simply stared at him, refusing to answer, he sputtered, “He’s indisposed.”
“I’m aware of that.” She seized the man’s coat and shook it. “Is he here?”
He stepped back, smoothing his coat. “Mr. Hartley is abed with a malady.”
“Take me to him. Immediately.”
The butler sighed. “It will be more than my life’s worth if I do.”
“Nonsense. Don’t be so dramatic. My father is a good friend of Mr. Hartley’s. I must speak to him. A matter of urgency.”
“A matter of some urgency, is it?” He seized this explanation like a drowning man grabbing at wreckage floating in the sea. “I must announce you. Your name?”
“I wish to surprise him.” She followed he butler upstairs.
The butler paused on the landing. “Wait here, if you please.” He knocked at a door, and when a deep voice responded, he entered and shut the door in Henrietta’s face.
She tapped her foot. Several minutes passed. She grasped the doorknob and opened the door to find the servant explaining to Christian in a broken voice that he was sure it was an urgent matter. Henrietta pushed past him.
“Henrietta!” Christian lay in bed; his shoulder heavily strapped his face pale in the early morning light.
“Oh, Christian.” With a sob, she rushed to the bed, and perched on it beside him. “You’ve been hurt!” She plucked at the sheet and patted him gently. Peeked at his bandage. “Does it hurt very much? What happened? Tell me!”
He winced and gently withdrew her hand from his arm, raising it to his lips. “Darling Henrietta. Who told you?”
“I overheard some men at Baroness La Trobe’s ball last night.” She studied him carefully. Although his olive skin was pale, he didn’t appear desperately ill. She leaned over to place a hand on his forehead. It was reassuringly cool. “What does the doctor say?”
He gave a crooked smile. “I’ll live.”
“Oh, my darling,” she whispered. “You’ll never get rid of me now.”
Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes as he spoke to the manservant still hovering at the door. “Tea, please, Beaton. And something tasty to eat for my… soon to be wife.”
Beaton broke into a smile. “Right away, sir.”
Henrietta tenderly studied her love. So, this was why he called off their engagement. He was sent on a dangerous mission by the government.
The door closed behind the butler. “As soon as you’re strong enough, I shall take you to the country to recuperate. And I intend to keep you there. No more gallivanting around, Christian. I prefer a quiet life.” She took a deep breath, ready to fight him should he think of objecting.
His chuckle turned into a cough then he winced.
Concerned, she poured a glass of water from a pitcher on a table and handed it to him. “I suppose you can’t tell me where you’ve been or how you were hurt?”
“No, my love. This gunshot wound heals well. Do you understand why I had to say what I did? I hated to hurt you, Henrietta. But I thought…”
Men were so stupid at times. Even the smartest and the bravest of them. She took the glass from him and put it down. “Hush, darling. Of course, I do. You thought you’d die and wished to spare me. It doesn’t matter
now. But,” she shook her finger at him, “please don’t do it again.”
He grinned. “I have no intention of it.” He traced his fingers in a cross over his heart. “I promise.”
“Good.” She laughed. “Now you must concentrate on getting well. And I will care for you until you do.”
“Give me a kiss then.”
She bent over and took his dear face in her hands then pressed her mouth gently to his. His good arm came around her, and with a soft moan pulled her against him, kissing her with a fervor that belied his weakened condition. The passionate response was exactly what she needed. How she had missed him and his kisses.
When she drew away, he shook his head. “Good Lord, Henrietta. Let’s marry as soon as I’m on my feet.”
“Or before.” She leaned over and kissed him again. “Oh!” she said after she reluctantly drew away, “You won’t have heard. Papa and Verity have married.”
He smiled. “I am very pleased for them.”
“And Philippe’s well again. He received a letter from Mademoiselle Josette. She escaped punishment and has returned to her farm.”
“You are the purveyor of excellent news. Kiss me again.”
She obliged, then brushed his dark hair back from his forehead. His hand roamed over her back and down to trace the curve of her waist to her hip. Then he gently pushed her away. “I want no scandal attached to you, my love. You must go home after your tea.”
“Can I come every day and help to take care of you?”
He shook his head. “Too dangerous.”
She frowned. “Dangerous?”
“Mmm. Especially when I’m stronger.”
She laughed. A knock at the door then Beaton entered with the tea things. Another servant followed behind with two tasty breakfasts.
Beaton set the cups and plates out on the table.
“I’m afraid I have sad news for Verity,” Christian said.
“Oh?”
“Her Uncle François has died on the guillotine.”
Hostage to Love Page 25