She slumped back down into her chair, resting her head in her hands. To her surprise, she began to sob with complete abandon as her sisters gathered hurriedly around her.
‘Oh, dear Anne, don’t cry.’ Lydia hugged her with passionate sorrow, her tears mingling with Anne’s. ‘I am a beast. I know it.’
‘He did do something to her.’ Henrietta’s face darkened. ‘I will burn Longwater, and salt the earth it was built on. I’m going to get my bonnet.’
‘No! He—he did nothing—we did—’ Anne collapsed into a fresh burst of sobbing. ‘Oh, Lydia, why must you pry so?’
‘But you would never have said anything otherwise.’ Henrietta gripped Anne’s hand. ‘You would have withered away and died of a broken heart, and never said a single word about the whole business. You never tell us any secrets anymore.’
Agnes said nothing. Anne felt her youngest sister’s lips press gently to her hair, and sobbed all the harder.
‘Please tell us what happened.’ Henrietta gently squeezed her hand. ‘Or I will be forced to commit some sort of terribly violent act, and I don’t wish for poor Grace to have to wash my bloodied skirts.’
‘Nothing. Everything.’ Anne threw up her hands, tears falling onto the tablecloth as she spoke without thinking. ‘He saw me in breeches at Longwater, and got hit by a spade and fell over, and—and he came to me the night of the Spring Ball when I was looking at the seedlings, when Eustace looked at Laeticia Cartwright and I knew—’
Lydia looked very carefully at Henrietta, mouthing, breeches? Henrietta shrugged, mouthing back spade with equal confusion as Agnes shook her head.
‘And now I have ruined everything. He offered to—to—and I told him that—that I never wished to speak to him again, and now I am…’ Anne’s face crumpled again. ‘I am…’
Lydia spoke delicately. ‘Confused?’
‘In hell.’ Anne’s face crumpled again. ‘In hell.’
‘I see.’ Lydia looked at Agnes, who sighed. ‘Oh, goodness.’
Several minutes of general soothing occurred; much patting of Anne’s head, lumps of sugar placed in Anne’s tea, gentle moving of Anne to the softest chair in the room. Anne let herself be handled by her sisters, still dejected, but oddly peaceful now that her darkest secret had become a topic of family discussion. The conversation slowly calmed, given an air of normality with the patient effort of Lydia, Henrietta and Agnes, until the facts of the matter had lost their sharpest edges.
‘And Lord Wakely?’ Lydia brought Anne’s cup of tea to her lips, forcing her to sip. ‘The understanding?’
‘The understanding is a little more layered, now that we know he loves Laeticia Cartwright.’ Henrietta frowned. ‘But given that he has kept his feelings so intensely private, I can hardly take revenge on your behalf.’
‘And neither should you. Eustace is as trapped as I am.’ Anne sighed deeply. ‘There would need to be decisive movement on at least one side, to call the whole thing off. And Eustace is hardly the most decisive of gentlemen—why, he has been corralled into marrying me without so much as objecting.’
‘You are not married yet.’ Lydia looked at Anne, tea cup in hand. ‘Perhaps you must be the decisive one.’
‘Based on what? Newspaper reports?’ Anne threw up her hands, almost sending the tea cup flying. ‘I… I cannot think what to—’
She stopped, fresh tears in her eyes, as boisterous footsteps clattered down the corridor. The sudden appearance of the letter boy, followed by a harried Grace, caused a fresh wave of flurried activity.
‘Really, Grace?’ Henrietta glared at the maid, who glared back. ‘You are supposed to take the letters.’
‘I couldn’t stop him.’ Grace folded her arms as Henrietta frowned. ‘Your father is shouting for brandy. I was distracted.’
‘Well, of all the moments to call.’ Lydia nodded to Grace as the maid coldly left the room, before holding out her hand to the messenger boy—who placed the letters onto her upturned palm as carefully as if they were china. ‘You are so very lucky that we are genteelly poor, instead of merely genteel. Otherwise I’d have the butler turn you out on your ear.’
‘You don’t ‘ave a butler.’ The messenger boy grinned. ‘And you ain’t too poor to give me a coin.’
‘Curse the wisdom of today’s youth.’ Lydia neatly tossed a coin into the air; the boy caught it with snakelike quickness. ‘Far too observant. Now be off, before I set the hounds on you.’
‘You ain’t got hounds either.’ But with a wider grin and a respectful tip of his hat to Anne, who managed an authoritative incline of the head in response, he vanished out of the door.
‘Oh, dear.’ Lydia sighed. ‘I really must tell Grace that no visitor should be allowed to run through the house in such a harum-scarum fashion. Now he’ll tell his brothers and sisters that the Herefords are going mad.’
‘No, he won’t.’ Henrietta smiled, her eyes narrowing. ‘Not unless he wants his mother to know about all the candles he has been stealing from our storeroom.’
‘Is that where our candles have been going?’ Anne turned to Henrietta, wiping away the last of her tears. ‘Why on earth have you told no-one about this?’
‘Because such information is only truly useful in times of crisis.’ Henrietta shrugged. ‘Like this crisis. Thanks to my silence, your unforgivable crime of weeping a little will never be discovered by anyone—as long as I speak to our erstwhile messenger before he leaves the house.’
Rising from the table, she swept eerily from the room. The sisters watched her go, expressions of slight but definite unease on their faces, before turning back to Anne.
‘Well…while Henrietta terrifies, let us return to our normal concerns. Namely, how long we can put off the butcher’s bill.’ Lydia leafed through the letters. ‘Make that the butcher, the baker, the carriage-wheel repair… oh. And a letter for you, Anne.’
After such an emotional outburst, a letter felt most portentous—especially with the address written in Susan’s handwriting, which brought Anne’s heart to her throat.
Would Susan be writing to apologise for her brother’s conduct? To upbraid her, punish her—tell her that she was no longer welcome at Longwater? She opened it as quietly as possible, attempting to read it quickly as her sisters eagerly pored over the words.
Anne. The handwriting was that of Susan; as brisk and no-nonsense as the woman herself. You are to—
Anne’s eyes widened.
‘Really? But can it be true?’ Lydia looked at Anne, her eyes shining. ‘Has a woman ever done such a thing? I have never known you to take an interest in gardening, Anne.’
—to oversee developments that his Grace and I wish to make—
‘Is that what you have been doing with Susan? I always assumed you were having tea.’ Agnes smiled. ‘But it seems as if there will be a title. And possibly money—goodness. We cannot possibly tell Father. Or anyone else.’
—make to the Longwater Estate, namely the seasonal gardens. The title, I believe, would be ‘Head Gardener’. There will—
‘And it is, of course, desperately romantic. His Grace must have had a hand in it.’ Lydia stared dreamily into the middle distance. ‘Although the thought of income is possibly more romantic, now that three of my skirts have holes in them.’
—will be over one hundred varieties of rose.
Head Gardener? At Longwater?
Please visit as soon as possible.
One hundred varieties of rose?
Henry had to have had a hand in it. What skill he must have shown, what dexterity, to bring Susan around to the idea.
Anne couldn’t help but smile. Reading the words in private would have meant an unpleasant shock; an overwhelming rush of pain, of pleasure, of duty and desire twinned too tightly to break apart. In the company of her sisters, however, all of them eagerly reading over one another, the letter was almost humorous.
Almost. If Henry did indeed have a hand in it—in giving her something that she most desperat
ely wanted—she would have no idea how to conduct herself.
‘No. We cannot tell anyone.’ She rose again, the letter held tightly in her hands. ‘But I will, absolutely, perform this task for Susan. Without the title—trust Susan to suggest something so irregular.’
‘But do take the money, Anne. And allow his Grace the opportunity to demonstrate how thoroughly he has reformed.’ Lydia clapped her hands, her cheeks pink with glee.
‘Absolutely not.’ Anne swallowed, furiously denying the way her heart had leapt at the very thought. ‘This… this is a long-held dream of mine, as you well know. His Grace does not enter into it at all.’
‘Yes. We do know.’ Agnes nodded earnestly. ‘And would it not be wonderful if your long-held dream managed to intertwine with a recent one?’
‘Intertwine, Agnes?’ Lydia raised an eyebrow at Agnes, who looked down as the beginnings of a severe blush spread across her cheeks. ‘We really must have a closer look at the novels you read so hungrily.’
‘And with that, I believe that breakfast has drawn to a close. Only one tearful outburst, two surprising turns of events, and Henrietta only said one mildly troubling thing.’ Lydia shrugged. ‘All in all, acceptable.’
‘Yes.’ Anne shook her head. ‘I can only imagine what things will be like when the three of you have suitors.’
‘Only one suitor concerns us today.’ Lydia smiled. ‘The letter says as soon as possible. That’s today.’
‘Oh, Lord.’ Anne looked at her, feeling utterly helpless. ‘Today?’
‘Yes.’ Lydia nodded. ‘How fortunate that you recently had a divine day-gown made. The new Longwater Head Gardener will look splendid.’
Three weeks, as long as they had been for Anne, had been interminable for Henry Colborne. Interminable, impossible, horrible—he had thought each and every one of those things, pale and sweating from a lack of brandy, suffering through the tears of any number of former paramours. Becoming a Good Man meant work, as it turned out; constant, patient, maddening work, seemingly designed to drain one’s bank account, lose a good half of one’s friends, and ensure that every social occasion was as dull as ditch-water.
It was only towards the end of the third week that he felt dawn breaking. Waking up was easier; his body no longer feared sunlight, purged as it was of excess alcohol and opium dregs. He felt fitter, more capable; giving money, which he had begun doing only out of a dim sense of duty, began to feel more like an active pleasure. Andrew, taking him in one morning, had declared that he looked well.
Henry did not feel well. Every day he was confronted with old sins, old shame; shame he was forced to battle and overcome. Strength, then, was being broken and remade day after day, moment after moment, in the hope that such pressure formed an indestructible character—and at night, before he slept, imagining the face of Anne Hereford.
Anne made his suffering worthwhile. Henry had known that even if they never met again, she had made him a better man… but oh, how he had wished to meet her again.
He had spoken to Susan. Spoken to her as a brother should; like a trusted confidant, not an absent nuisance. He had begged, entreated, coaxed, persuaded… and, finally, convinced her to offer Anne a position he knew she had to long for.
It was unconventional. Quite possibly ridiculous, under the unrelenting eye of the ton. But Henry knew that a Good Man would offer a reason to come to Longwater that didn’t depend on his own heart. That didn’t require Anne to put aside her principles, strong and correct as they were.
And she had come. Against all odds, she had come; come the very day that Susan had sent the letter. Come with her youngest sister in tow, clearly as some sort of chaperone, in the gown that Henry remembered from the first time he had seen her; seen her as a woman worth changing for, not a shy face in a crowd to be ignored… God, how beautiful she was. Beautiful in a way that a good man could truly appreciate.
They stood beside one another, determinedly avoiding one another’s eyes, as the sun-drenched Longwater gardens gave up their sweetness. Susan, holding court next to a glowering man—the new grounds-keeper, apparently named Isaac—finally looked at Anne with a sigh of immense annoyance.
‘I am leaving now, for the kitchen garden, and taking Agnes with me. Isaac will begin seeing to the Long Walk.’ Susan looked from Henry to Anne, her gaze hovering at the level of their mouths. ‘You are both being immensely confusing this afternoon, and I lack either the energy or the patience to make you say anything resembling good sense. You are to list all of the current herb varieties in the planted knot, and consider new ones.’
‘Why must Agnes go with you?’ The flash of concern in Anne’s voice made Henry’s heart sink.
‘Because I require a woman’s hands for the pea-pods. Men are too rough, and you must list the herbs.’ Susan scowled at Henry. ‘Ignore my brother completely—he has been most unhelpful today.’
‘You are quite right, Susan.’ Henry bowed as his sister nodded, his eyes briefly meeting Anne’s in a thrilling flash of contact. ‘I am good for nothing today.’
‘Indeed.’ Anne curtseyed. ‘I have also been useless.’
‘No. Not useless. Your ideas for the herbaceous borders have some merit.’ Susan nodded graciously. ‘But apart from that, you have been blushing and stumbling your way through every sentence. I do not want such a shy Head Gardener.’ She turned to Agnes. ‘Her blushes have been almost as bad as yours.’
‘Not quite.’ Agnes smiled, looking over the Anne. ‘But she is certainly more glowing than usual.’
Anne looked at her sister, clearly appealing for rescue. ‘Are you sure you do not wish to stay?’
Agnes smiled. ‘Yes. My wish is to be anywhere else.’
Henry, smiling meekly, wanted to die. He waited silently as Susan and Agnes turned to leave, Isaac following behind, sure that he could feel similar waves of embarrassment from Anne’s general direction.
They were finally alone. What on earth could he say?
Anne had never felt so exposed. She had brought Agnes with her as a shield; a way of softening any encounter with Henry. Now, with nothing but her own fading sense of decorum to protect her from her own hunger, she tried desperately to think of something neutral enough for conversation.
‘How splendid the new shade garden looks.’ She gestured in the general direction of the thickly-planted, high-hedged garden, knowing that her eagerness sounded decidedly brittle. ‘Susan really cannot be complimented enough.’
‘Susan can be complimented for many things. Not least her disregard for convention—we are alone, after all.’ Henry smiled; Anne felt it fill her like sunlight. ‘Another of her qualities is making sure there are no conversational conventions left to hide behind. If you will recall, we have already talked about the shade garden at astonishing length.’
They looked at one another for a brief, startling moment, their expressions as close to naked as they had ever been. Anne turned away, finding it too difficult to sustain.
‘Oh, I am not sure. I believe I could talk about the weather, or the gardens, or—or the health of various family members.’ She stumbled over the words, knowing that she was speaking too gaily. ‘There are ever so many things we could talk about.’
‘And we will not say a single piece of good sense regarding any of them.’
‘How do you know I will not be full of sage wisdom regarding all and sundry?’
‘Oh no. I don’t doubt that.’ Henry’s smile faded, replaced with a raw, yearning look that made Anne quiver. ‘But I will have nothing to offer in return—because as I look at you, and listen to you, I will feel my heart breaking and remaking itself with every breath. I feel it now. It… it will not end.’
This time, the moment of silent gazing seemed much longer. Long enough to take in every second of their shared past, every minute of their parallel present—and their futures, uncertain, but drawing closer together.
Anne stepped forward. She tried to take a deep breath, steadying herself, but her body was
already far beyond her control.
‘The… the orphanage.’ She spoke quickly, breathlessly; she couldn’t keep her composure now, not with Henry so close to her. Not with him continuing to look at her like that; as if she was holding something unutterably precious in far too light a grip. ‘The orphanage, and the courtesans, and the smoking—the lack of smoking. It cannot possibly be for my benefit. Please tell me that it is not.’
‘Why?’ Henry reached up, gently tucking a flyaway strand of hair back behind her ear; Anne shivered as his fingertip made contact with her skin. ‘Would it not please you?’
‘No.’ She swallowed, trying to control the beating of her heart. ‘It would not please me. It would—it would terrify me.’
‘And again, I must ask why?’ Henry’s brow furrowed. He spoke gently, but Anne could feel the strain in his voice. ‘The last thing I wish to do is terrify you.’
‘How could the evolution of a man not terrify me?’ Anne tried to laugh; it came out as a near-silent gasp for breath. ‘A man who was forced to listen to me criticise near every aspect of his character—a man I denounced as unmarriageable, for ever so many reasons. Reasons which no longer exist.’
She looked at Henry, hoping that he could hear her unspoken plea for an explanation. The softness in his face, the tender way in which he looked at her, was almost too wonderful to stand.
‘Anne Hereford, I wished to do nothing more than become a man worthy of your kindness. Not your love, not your hand—there is no implicit invitation in the man I have chosen to become, and neither is there expectation.’ Henry’s voice cracked a little. ‘At least—oh, there is hope. I cannot control the hope that rises in me when you look at me, Anne. I wish I could. But that is not your burden to bear. You have—you have shown me the man I am capable of being. You will always have my most ardent gratitude for that, even if you decide that there can be no future between—’
He stopped, clearly shocked, as Anne held a trembling hand to his mouth. Moving closer, the air suddenly hot and swimming around her, she whispered the words that she thought she would never say.
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