He smiled, and she felt threads of warmth making their way through her chest as he extended his arm again. “You may call me Henry if you wish.”
Eleanor hesitated. It seemed very informal. But he was her husband. Her mother had always called her father by his Christian name. Despite her every effort, her cheeks warmed as she said it.
“Thank you, Henry.”
Chapter 8
“This is the dining room,” Henry said, sweeping his open palm through the air. Her tour was almost complete, and Eleanor found herself not wanting it to end.
Eleanor took in the ornate, long table, the paintings on the walls, the simple chandelier above, and the intricate rug beneath the table. The room seated ten. She hoped Henry would allow her to invite her family to dine with them on occasion. The room could easily accommodate Adam and Amelia as well as Lord and Lady Coventry, who Eleanor had come to like immensely.
“Shall we move to the upper floor?” Henry asked.
Eleanor nodded, following him out of the room and toward the staircase. The second floor consisted of mostly bedrooms, but there was also the portrait gallery and a music room.
“Do you play any instruments?” Henry asked as he opened the door.
“I do not.” Eleanor wished she had learned to play the pianoforte in her youth, but she had been all too consumed with more frivolous activities. Still, when she thought about her life before her marriage to Mr. Quinton, she found there was much to miss. She had been so happy, energetic, and free. She and her friends had gone to the assembly rooms often, flirting, dancing, playing cards. She had enjoyed perusing the Brighton shops and wearing beautiful accessories. She had a basic education, but she was far from proficient in French or any other subject expected of young ladies. She wished she had better spent her time. If she had been smarter, perhaps she might have seen Mr. Quinton for who he was.
“It is never too late to learn.” Henry smiled again, sending another wave of warmth through her cheeks. She cursed herself for being affected by a mere smile. She had allowed Mr. Quinton’s smiles to steal her heart, but he had soon after trampled it underfoot. She would not risk that again. Henry had no intention of loving her. He had only married her because…
Well, she did not have the answer. Henry was her protector, perhaps he could even become her friend. But nothing more.
“I have always wanted to learn the harp,” she said, staring at the tall, golden instrument. She smiled softly. “When I was a child, I thought playing the harp would make me feel like an angel.”
Henry stared at her, delight crossing his features. “I suspect you would look rather angelic playing it as well.”
Flattery. That had been Mr. Quinton’s first weapon. She felt her smile disappear, and she crossed her arms over her stomach. “Only because my mother had a painting of an angel playing a harp. I always associated the instrument with angels.”
“I see.” Henry nodded, his own smile fading. He cleared his throat. “Well, I would gladly hire you an instructor if you wish.”
She shook her head. “That is all right. I will have little time to practice with Arthur running about.”
“I will take him whenever you need time to yourself.”
Eleanor’s muscles twitched with alarm. “Take him?”
Henry’s brow flattened. “Take him under my care. Look after him. The nursemaid will be able to help too.”
She felt thoroughly stupid for needing such an explanation. Her nerves were on edge and had been for a very long time. “Yes, of course. That would be wonderful.”
Awkwardness filled the air again, and she turned away, walking closer to the harp. She ran her finger along the golden neck, lightly plucking the strings. She observed the other instruments in silence, feeling the smooth wood of the cello beside it, and studying the chipped keys of the pianoforte. “I should return to Arthur,” she said. “He does not fare well when distanced from me for a long time.”
Henry watched her carefully. “Very well. It has been a busy day, and I—I ought to return to my study to work as well. Will I see you both at dinner at six o’clock?”
Eleanor noted his change of stance. She had never seen him appear less that perfectly confident, but he appeared somewhat defeated.
She simply nodded, not knowing what else to do. What was wrong with her? He was trying to be hospitable and she was making him uncomfortable.
Henry gave her a tight smile as he walked by, his boots clicking on the floor. Every sound felt louder in this room, even the silence seemed to have its own sound—its own deafening sound. Why could she not behave normally around Henry? She did not mean to give the indication that she did not trust him, because she did. Didn’t she? He had given her no reason not to. Bottled frustration collected in her chest, and she could hardly breathe. What a way to repay the man who had sacrificed so much for her.
She was not accustomed to people sacrificing things for her. She had sacrificed, and she had given, and all life had done to her was take. Life had taken her mother, her father, her peace, her innocence, and even parts of her personality. She did not know how to properly receive.
With a deep breath, she weaved her way past the various instruments and stepped into the hall. Henry was already gone.
* * *
When Eleanor returned to Arthur’s room, he was still asleep. She sat on the edge of his bed, studying the light crease in his forehead. Such a young child should not have a crease like that, one she knew had been formed from constant worry and fear.
She hoped he could be happy with this new life fate had granted them.
She hoped she could too.
The hours passed slowly, and knots formed in Eleanor’s stomach as she anticipated dinner with Henry. She was terrible at conversing—it had been too long since she had practiced. Even her first time speaking with him when he had saved their coach from the mud, she had behaved more normally than this. But that was before she fully noticed his blue eyes and golden hair and warm smile. Before he sacrificed much more than a meal and some spare change.
Arthur awoke with just enough time to change for dinner. Eleanor had very few gowns, but she wore one of the new ones, a pale blue, that she had found in town with Amelia in the week leading up to her wedding. She would have much to learn about running her own household, but for now, she simply walked down to the dining room, Arthur holding her hand. She was fortunate just to have remembered where the room was.
Henry stood when she entered, looking decidedly nervous. It did little to alleviate her own nervousness to see that he felt the same.
“Eleanor, Arthur, please sit down.” Henry smiled, gesturing at two nearby chairs. “I trust you had an enjoyable afternoon?”
Eleanor nodded, sitting down at the table. “Yes. Arthur slept through most of it.”
“Does he like the house?”
“He likes his bed at the very least.”
Henry’s lips quirked upward at the corners, his eyes flickering between Eleanor and Arthur. They settled on Arthur. “Do you like cake? I have asked the cook to bake one for dessert this evening to celebrate your first day at your new home.”
Arthur blinked. “Cake?”
“We were not afforded such delicacies at our previous residence,” Eleanor said. “Arthur has never tasted it.”
Henry’s expression bloomed with compassion. “You have never tasted cake?”
Arthur shook his head. “What does it taste wike?”
“Heaven on earth.” Henry grinned, meeting Eleanor’s eyes. “Would you agree?”
The last cake she had eaten would have had to have been the Brighton bakery’s Shrewsbury cakes, her very favorite treat. Her mouth watered at the thought of the flaky, citrus infused cake. “Wholeheartedly,” she said.
A gleam of excitement appeared in Arthur’s eyes, and Henry winked at him. “I will make certain you receive a large slice of cake this evening.”
Eleanor met his eyes with a grateful smile. Henry smiled back past the arms
of the servants as they set the first course on the table.
“I hope to show you more of Worthing,” he said. “It is a beautiful area, and I would even venture to say it rivals Brighton in beauty. The sea is nearby, the hills are greener, and our town shops are a bit quainter. You do enjoy shopping, don’t you? I have not met a woman that abhors it.”
Eleanor gave a soft smile. “Nor have I. I do enjoy it, very much.”
“I hope to take you into town as soon as you wish to have new dresses made.” Henry took a spoonful of his soup, and Eleanor took it as an opportunity to taste her own dish. The creamy soup burned on the way down. She swallowed hard, picking up her goblet to cool her throat.
“Is the soup too hot?” Henry asked, true concern in his voice.
“Not at all. I think it simply took me by surprise.”
“I’d wager you have had a lot of surprise to deal with of late.” Henry’s eyes were gentle. “The soup is likely the least of your concern.”
She had experienced more than her fair share. A scream cut through her mind, a flash of red, and a white sheet. She pushed the memory away, her stomach turning over and over. Her plate appeared suddenly unappetizing. She smiled, hoping Henry couldn’t hear her heart pounding. Could she keep her secrets from him forever? She owed him the truth after all he had done for her, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell anyone what had happened the day she left for Brighton. Fear mounted her spine, climbing up and up, wrapping around her like a snake.
All remnants of her smile had disappeared, and her stomach resisted every bite of soup. She did not feel inclined to speak, and after a few attempts at conversation, it seemed Henry felt the same. The rest of the meal was served in near silence, with a few remarks on the meal or the room offered on occasion. Arthur seemed to enjoy his cake, eating every last crumb, but Eleanor could hardly taste hers.
She took several moments to study Henry’s face. Every feature was tight, uncomfortable, as he dragged his fork quietly over his plate. “Would you like to spend a few minutes in the drawing room?” he asked.
Eleanor nodded, relieved to have the silence broken and the meal over with. The sooner she could escape to her room, the better. In the dark days in the North, she had grown accustomed to being alone. She preferred being alone to sort through her emotions, her fears, and her troubled thoughts. Alone was where she found solutions, clarity, and strength. Arthur had often needed her, but she had not needed anyone.
She followed Henry through the shadowed hall, pulling Arthur along beside her. When Henry entered the drawing room, he turned around, his blue eyes flashing bright in the sudden light from the fireplace. “I thought Arthur might enjoy one of my favorite books.” He walked to the coffee table, scooping up a thin volume.
He waited for Eleanor to sit before taking a seat on the settee to her right. He patted the cushion beside him, ushering Arthur forward. “I would like to read you a story,” Henry said. “Come, sit.”
Arthur glanced back at Eleanor as he walked tentatively forward. He sat down beside Henry, his feet dangling above the ground as he glanced at the cover of the book in Henry’s hand.
“Mama tells me stories,” Arthur said.
“Does she?” Henry’s gaze lifted, and he raised his eyebrows at her. “Perhaps she will tell us one this evening.”
Eleanor’s stomach squeezed. “No, there will be no need for that.”
“Please, Mama,” Arthur said. His eyes, appearing every bit as large and blue as Henry’s, stared at her mercilessly. “My favorite one.”
She knew which one Arthur’s favorite was. It was the story he asked for nearly every night. She had created the story to give herself hope when it had been the faintest. To recite the story for Henry would impose a level of vulnerability that terrified her. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “Perhaps another time.”
Henry tipped his head to one side. “And deny me the opportunity to hear it?”
“Yes, that would be the point.” She had meant it seriously, but the smile on Henry’s face told her it had been interpreted otherwise.
His eyes flashed with amusement and he arched one eyebrow, watching her with his tell-tale curiosity. “What do you say, Arthur? Shall we ask her again once our book is finished? Do you think we shall change her mind?”
Arthur nodded, turning his attention back to the book in Henry’s hand.
Eleanor grumbled inwardly. Her annoyance was quickly banished, however, when Henry began reading. His voice, deep and gentle, began relaying a story of three young lambs. The book was illustrated, but Arthur seemed uninterested in the pages. He was wholly captivated, as she was, by Henry. Arthur giggled at his expressions as he spoke for the characters, and she could see his little shoulders relaxing as the story went on. He even moved closer to Henry, unafraid to lean into his arm to obtain a closer look at the pictures.
Eleanor hardly heard the story. All she saw was the look of delight and peace on Arthur’s face as Henry turned the last page, closing the book in his lap. Threads of warmth spread up her arms and through her heart as Henry smiled down at Arthur.
Her heart hammered and emotion gripped her throat. She tried her best to hide it. She was so moved by Arthur’s expression that she needed something to hold onto. She clasped her hands so tightly together that her knuckles turned white. Henry turned his smile toward her, and the warmth in her chest caught fire.
“Mama’s story now,” Arthur said.
“What? No.” Eleanor shook her head.
“Yes,” Henry said. “Please.”
Eleanor cursed the gentleness, the softness, the irresistibility of that please. She did not know how to refuse his simple request after all he had done for her. “Very well.”
Henry sat back, crossing one leg over his knee, a pleased smile on his lips. Arthur mimicked his posture, glancing up at Henry to ensure he had done it right.
Another stab of emotion pricked at her throat. She had hoped and prayed that Arthur would not become like his father, but here was a man that she would be quite pleased for him to grow up to be like. Her heart skipped with admiration for Henry, despite her every intention not to feel it. She was seconds away from becoming a watering pot, she was certain of it. Her tears seemed to balance on her lower eyelids.
Somehow, she managed to keep her emotions in their proper place, but only just. She tried to keep her voice steady as she began her story.
Arthur listened intently, and so did Henry.
“Deep within the trees, where the leaves grew dark and the sun never shined, lived a young boy,” she began. “He had lived his entire life there, in the cold and in the dark, but a doe of the forest told him tales of a world beyond his own, a world with light and warmth. At first, the boy did not believe her. How could there be such a thing as light? he asked. Light is there, the deer said. One day it will find you.”
Henry watched her, the intensity of his gaze sending her voice out of rhythm.
She swallowed her anxiety. She looked at Arthur as she spoke, pretending Henry was not there at all. “The boy waited, watching for signs of the light. He had never seen it, so he did not know what to watch for. In the days he waited, the boy proved his strength, fighting the monsters that passed through his land, waiting at the edge of the stream for the day the light would find them. He knew it would come one day, but he did not know when.”
“Can I say the next part?” Arthur asked.
Eleanor nodded.
“When will the light come?” Arthur recited, speaking for the boy of the story.
She smiled softly, speaking for the doe. “It does not matter when it comes, but it matters that it will come. We must prepare to receive it. In search of the light, the boy and the deer cut down the trees surrounding their stream, revealing the moon in the sky. It is just night that causes this darkness, the deer said. Day always follows night. When the last of the trees were cleared, tiny flecks appeared beside the moon. Those are the stars, the deer said. They are the footprints of
light. We must follow them. The deer and the boy crossed the stream, walked through the woods, climbed the mountains, and came to a meadow filled with beautiful dark flowers. Exhausted from their journey, the boy and the deer lay down among the flowers.
“Is this where the light lives?” Arthur said, his voice quick, continuing the story.
“The deer had begun to wonder, like the boy, whether light was real. If light lives in you, and it lives in me, no matter where we go or what we face, we shall always have light, the deer said. As the words were spoken, the sky turned pink, then peach, then yellow. The sun rose above the mountains, spilling warmth onto the flowers and the boy and the deer. Colors grew vibrant, and a path appeared before them. The light has given us a path, the deer said.
Eleanor paused so Arthur could speak his part. “Where does the path lead?” Arthur said, his voice filled with excitement.
Eleanor took a deep breath, one meant to fortify her. “It will lead us home.”
The room settled in silence, and she dared a glance at Henry’s face. She was so surprised by the warmth and emotion she saw, that she had to look away. All she knew were her father’s ever-collected expressions, Adam’s that were the same, and her late husband’s cold stares. At that moment, she realized something she hadn’t fully realized since meeting Henry. He had a soft heart. Is that what had compelled him to save her and Arthur? To marry her that day? Was it truly as simple as that?
She fought her own emotions with a firm grip, keeping them tucked away. She looked down, hoping to lighten the heaviness of the room. “It is a strange story.”
“No,” Henry’s voice was quiet. “It is a beautiful story.”
Her gaze hovered over his for several seconds. “Thank you.” She could not gather the strength to look away. She wanted to believe that he was the source of light that had saved her and Arthur, that would keep them safe forever. He was her husband. Wasn’t that what a husband was supposed to do? She had learned the opposite to be true with Mr. Quinton, but there was a stark difference between darkness and light. For the first time in years, she felt as if she were finally surrounded by light once again. Even if it wasn’t what she had planned for herself, it seemed fate had granted her a different plan. Henry.
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