The Lord I Left

by Scarlett Peckham

  Lady Apthorp, in turn, smiled at Henry. “I always thought you were gifted at prose, even if you are sometimes a terrible nuisance with a quill.”

  She paused to allow everyone to groan, for she herself was, infamously, a terrible nuisance with a quill.

  “I make it my business to cultivate the most dissolute publishers as friends,” she added. “I will introduce you around to all of them, so that they may fight for the honor of putting you in print.”

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” a voice—her voice—said from behind Henry.

  He whirled around.

  Alice. His Alice.

  Her dove’s eyes were looking directly at him, shining.

  “Oh, Alice, there you are,” Elena said. “I thought you might have fallen asleep, and I didn’t want to wake you after your ordeal.”

  Her ordeal?

  “No, I was downstairs,” she said, sliding into the seat beside him. “Helping cook with something in the kitchen. A recipe my mother taught me.”

  “One-armed?” Elena chuckled.

  Henry belatedly noticed her right arm was tucked to her side with a discreet black sling.

  “Alice what happened?” he cried, far too loudly. He felt all the eyes in the room lock on him at once with open interest, but he could not contain himself. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes,” she reassured him. “I was in a carriage accident and broke my arm. But it’s mending, and I’m fine.”

  She paused, and looked at him sideward. “I only returned to London this afternoon. It seems there is much I have missed.” She smiled at him like there was no one else in the room.

  She meant his letters. His report.

  It was sinful to be glad she had endured a broken limb, but all he could think was thank you, Lord. For it meant, all this time, she had not been ignoring him.

  “I’m so glad you are recovering.”

  What he meant was that he wanted to take her in his arms and carry her from this room and tell her all of the feelings rattling around his heart, but did not wish to make a scene.

  He forced himself to keep his hands pressed on the tablecloth, so he would not do so anyway.

  “I asked Alice to join us because I suspect she had a hand in shaping Henry’s recommendations,” Elena said to the other guests. “They recently took a rather ill-fated journey, and it would seem they had ample time to talk.”

  Alice blushed and shook her head furiously. “Oh, no. Henry deserves all the credit for what he wrote. I merely railed at him a bit and horrified him with my cursing.”

  “That’s not true,” he said, just to her. “I’d long been wrestling with contradictory ideas. You helped me see what was right. I’m very grateful.”

  “You went much beyond what I had hoped for,” Alice said, looking pained. “I admire it, and I agree with you, but I can’t help but wonder why you did it.”

  You know why.

  “I simply found,” he said, looking into Alice’s eyes. “That I had to act in accordance with my heart. Whatever the consequences.”

  Chapter 36

  Given that everyone in the room was watching her and Henry in a state of abject fascination, Alice was grateful that Elena chose that moment to ring the bell summoning the food.

  She was more grateful still when Henry, perhaps sensing that she was finding it difficult to maintain her composure, changed the subject.

  “Lady Apthorp,” he said, “I’ve been hearing such wonderful things about the latest production at your theater. Are you working on a new play for next season?”

  “Do call me Constance,” she said, “And as it happens, I am working on an opera. Or, at least, the libretto for one. An adaptation of The Taming of the Shrew. Except in my version, the one who will be tamed is the man.”

  Avondale arched a brow at Constance. “Kind of you to finally write my biography.”

  “You are far from tamed, judging by what I’ve been hearing,” Constance rejoined.

  He lodged a tragic look at Elena. “Perhaps. But she’ll tame me one day.”

  He did not need to say who the “she” was. His obsession with Elena—who had for a decade been his whipping governess, and nothing else, despite his attempts at making her his mistress—was legend.

  Elena took a sip of wine and pretended not to hear him, for leaving him unrequited was a torture for which he paid her handsomely. “When can we expect the opera to debut?” she asked Constance.

  Constance wrinkled her nose. “Well, I’m still looking for a composer for the music. I’d like to find a woman, but it seems that the lady composers of note are quite trepidatious at the notion of associating with a scandalous person like myself. They must please their more sober-minded patrons.”

  “You should speak to Alice,” Henry said. “She’s a gifted musician.”

  “She is?” Elena asked.

  Alice’s eyes darted to her plate. It was kind of Henry to say this but she felt shy claiming her own talent.

  “Yes,” he said. “She plays beautifully, but her compositions are the real marvel. She’d not leave a dry eye in the theater.”

  Lady Apthorp looked delighted. “Oh good, I live to provoke tears! Would you be interested, Alice?”

  Interested was not the word. It would be the opportunity of her life. But she did not want to promise more than she was certain she could deliver.

  “I would love the chance, but I don’t know many operas. I would need to study the music to be sure I could work with the form.”

  “Come visit me and have a look at my libretto,” Constance said. “If it seems we might complement one another, we can take in some operas together for inspiration.”

  Alice glanced at Henry in disbelief. He gave her an encouraging smile.

  “I would be honored. Thank you.”

  Conversation turned to politics, and Alice scarcely listened. Normally a chance to dine with such interesting guests would have her hanging on every word, but with Henry beside her, she could barely remember her own name.

  “Oh, what is that heavenly aroma?” Constance said, inhaling the air, which had begun to smell like cinnamon. A maid, Delilah, came in holding a tray of apple tarts.

  “Oh, how beautiful,” Poppy said, admiring how they’d been shaped into flowers. “Give the cook our compliments.”

  Delilah smiled at Alice. “Alice made these herself. Said she thought the guest of honor would enjoy them.”

  Alice dared to steal a glance at Henry. He turned to her with raw emotion on his face.

  Oh dear. She had meant for this to be a subtle gesture. She did not wish to embarrass him.

  “My mother always made them with nuts and oats and butter in the crust—said it was healthier,” she explained, feeling hopelessly shy. “I thought you might find it a nice balance between sweet and savory.”

  Henry took a bite and closed his eyes. He nodded like he was lost in silent prayer. When he swallowed, he turned to her, and said in a voice that was barely audible, “It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

  The way he said it made her blush.

  They were both, indeed, blushing and looking at their plates, neither able to stop smiling.

  Archer cleared his throat. “I think,” he said kindly, “we should allow the guest of honor and Alice a moment alone.” When Alice looked up, she saw that the fearsome duke was biting his lip and looking at Henry like he wanted to hug him.

  Elena quickly stood, her dessert plate in hand. “Yes, let’s… ,” she gestured at the door, and everyone rose in a rush. Good-natured laughter followed them down the hall, and then she and Henry were alone.

  They both looked at the middle of the room, stunned. Alice was not sure what to say.

  “I had no idea you had been injured—” Henry began, at exactly the same time Alice blurted “I read your letter this afternoon—”

  They both stopped, winced. Alice sank down in her seat and laughed, though not in mirth so much as in excruciation.

  “You fi
rst,” he said softly.

  Well, she might as well not beat around the bush. It was clear that he was as disordered as she was, and if she did not come out and say what she was feeling one of them might have a conniption before she ever got the words out.

  “Henry, when my carriage was struck—it was lightning, a sudden storm. Well, I don’t actually remember much—not anything, really—except lying on the ground and praying for one thing. That that I could have another chance with you.”

  He swallowed painfully, seeming unable to talk, so she continued. “And then I saw your letter, and your report … and it was like my prayer was answered.”

  She took a slip of paper from her pocket and slid it across the table to him.

  “I wrote back to you. This is my answer.”

  His face crumpled as he read the lines she’d copied from the Song of Solomon.

  By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not.

  Henry—Set me as a seal upon thine heart.

  He fell to his knees before her and took her hands.

  “Alice. I love you. About everything else in my life, I am a mire of contradictions. But on this … on this, Alice, I know it as I know my own breath.”

  She leaned forward and placed a kiss upon his lips.

  “I have no other certainties either, Henry. But I love you, too. I do.”

  He squeezed her hand. “It was foolish of me to insist that we might have it easy. It won’t be. I see that now, and I am so sorry I dismissed your concerns. And if, given all that has happened, you are not eager to take on— ”

  “I’m a working girl, Henry Evesham,” she said, reaching up to brush his hair from his eyes. “I don’t require ease.”

  “You’re certain?” he whispered.

  She paused, because she wasn’t without worry. Far from it. “About how I feel. But I need to know you won’t regret this. I would hate to let myself become attached to you, only for you to find you want a decent girl.”

  “You are the most decent girl I know.”

  He was sweet, but she was not going to let him ignore her point. “You know what I mean.”

  He nodded, and something crossed his face. “One moment. I want to give you something.”

  He rose and left the room, and she heard him conferring with Stoker. When he returned, he carried his satchel. He reached inside and removed his journal.

  The one she’d taken.

  “I’ve been searching my heart since we parted, Alice. All my thoughts are in this book. I want you to read it. The whole thing. And decide for yourself if you might trust me to be yours.”

  She took the book from him and ran her hand over its soft cover. She loved this book. She’d missed her diarist. “I will read it right away. This very night.”

  “Once you do, write to me. And…” he smiled ruefully, “please know that I will be in agony awaiting your thoughts.”

  She hugged the journal to her chest. “I shall. I promise.”

  He smiled at her, and his eyes were filled with such yearning that she leaned in toward his lips. He put his hand behind her neck and murmured her name. Their lips met so softly that it was almost nothing at all.

  But it was enough to leave her shaken. She knew she had to step away, or she would never let him leave here.

  “Henry, I’m not going to join the others. I need… ” She took the book and kissed it. “I need to read this right away.”

  She saw Henry to the drawing room, said her farewells to the guests, and walked in a blind daze up the stairs to her room. She climbed into bed and began to read. When she had finished, she turned back to the first page, and read it all over again.

  He had copied passages from the Bible on female beauty. On men and women lying together. Verses exhorting love. And in the margins he had written his own thoughts, each framed as a confession. His notes were not formal, but personal and honest. Fears about what he might be capable of and what he might not be. Passages that aroused his body or moved his emotions. An account of the ecstasy he’d felt when coupling with her, and the tremendous fear that had gripped him afterwards.

  It was a confession of a man who lived virtuously not because he was a saint but because he was a sinner.

  But the passage she could not stop rereading was an account of the day she’d given him a tour of the whipping house.

  All I could think, as Alice led me to that subterranean chapel, was of the story I’ve read in the gospels so many times. In Luke’s account, “a woman who lived a sinful life learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee’s house. So she came there with an alabaster jar of perfume. As she stood behind him at his feet weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears. Then she wiped them with her hair, kissed them and poured perfume on them.”

  For years, I’ve pictured myself in the scene, and it stirred me shamefully. I was horrified at being capable of such blasphemy. And yet, I can’t deny I still long for it. I can’t stop imagining that if I were to tell Alice of this vision—or, dare I even write it … ask her to indulge me in it—that I might reassure us both that we are suited. For if I could trust her with this part of me, and not revile myself nor her for it later, would she not know there is no part of herself she cannot trust me with?

  In the morning, Alice sent the errand boy to Henry’s rooms, instructing him to come see her right away. When he arrived, he looked so young and nervous that she wrapped her good arm around his neck without speaking.

  “You read it?” he murmured.

  “Twice. And it was beautiful. And I think you’re exactly right.”

  He stepped back, searching her face. “Right about what?”

  “About your vision,” she said softly. “You want me to bathe and perfume your feet, like the woman in the gospel.”

  He flushed a bit, but he did not dodge her eye, nor deny that he wanted it. “You would do it?”

  She smiled. “With pleasure, Henry. If you’re certain.”

  “I’m not certain,” he admitted. “It’s very new, to even admit to myself … But I … I long for it. And if I can accept it, then perhaps, I hope …”

  She took his hand and squeezed it, because his vulnerability so moved her that she could not look at him without also touching him.

  “I have bad news,” she whispered in his ear.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m afraid you will have to wait until I have use of my arm.”

  He stepped back, and smiled, looking more like himself. “Good. That will give me time.”

  “Time for what?”

  He straightened his back, and his confidence returned in full measure. “To court you properly, Miss Hull.”

  Chapter 37

  Broken arms healed slowly.

  Sometimes maddeningly slowly, for it protracted the uncertainty, and the anticipation, between himself and Alice.

  Sometimes deliciously slowly, for it left time for other things, simpler things that neither of them had ever done before, like visiting bakery shops to find the most perfect apple tart in London, or touring cathedrals to locate the most beautifully toned organ.

  By day, Henry spent his hours turning his account of London’s streets into a book. But in the evenings, he met Alice at Lady Constance’s theatre. Some evenings, he went on to the opera with Alice and the Apthorps, and he delighted in watching Alice listen intently, jotting down ideas in her notebook, or whispering ideas to Constance about the work they were creating.

  Some nights, they strolled about through London’s pleasure gardens, singing broadsheet ballads to each other. On Sundays, he persuaded her to attend the new worship group he’d started, where she began arranging hymns.

  And at night, he dreamed of her.

  When his dreams were sweet, he woke up smiling. And when his dreams were wicked, he did not deny himself the pleasure of them. He wrote them down and sent them to Alice in letters addressed to Mistress Hull.

  After one such morning, his note came back
with a reply in her hand.

  Mistress Hull has set your appointment for tomorrow at ten o’clock in the morning.

  He knew exactly what this meant.

  That night, he barely slept.

  When he arrived on Charlotte Street the following day, Alice greeted him at the door. She was wearing her formal receiving dress and the sling was nowhere to be found.

  “Mistress Hull,” he said, bowing. She led him into a small room and made him sit, while she stood. Her face was stern. “Now then. You’ve come to me for a session. Tell me what it is you’d like.”

  He hesitated, unsure what to say, as he’d never bought the services of a whore. Her face softened, and she used her normal speaking voice. “Henry, are you sure you want to do this?”

  (He was. He was.)

  He nodded. “If I seem uncertain, it is because I have rarely allowed myself to do something I have wanted so dearly in my entire life.”

  Something changed in her eyes. Her expression was soft, calm, understanding. It was the face he once used when his congregants confessed their sins and worries.

  She came and put two hands on his head. “You are safe with me, Henry. Safe.”

  Her gentle touch gave him a measure of comfort—enough to say exactly what he wanted.

  She asked questions on several details he had not thought of—the temperature he preferred for the water, what she should wear, whether he wanted more touched than just his feet. It was strange to be asked such intimate questions in such a brisk, efficient way.

  Alice finally nodded, satisfied she knew the full measure of his fantasy, and the limits of it.

  “Stoker is waiting outside. He will take you downstairs,” she said. “When I meet you there, I shall be the woman from your fantasy, and you shall be the weary traveler. If you find you want to stop, you need only address me as Alice, and that will be a signal to pause our session.”

  He followed Stoker through the quiet house to the room that had once haunted his dreams. It was exactly as he remembered it, except the scent of incense was stronger, and a chair had been placed at the center of the room in front of the altar, surrounded by candles.