Rakes and Radishes

by Susanna Ives

  The copper-eyed lady flicked her wrist as if she were already bored with Henrietta. “Tommie, I’m dreadfully sorry but it’s a motley crew of young ladies this year, quite frightful. Freckles and crooked teeth. All dreadfully rich and connected, of course. The only one with any beauty is Lady Sara, and she is chasing this splendidly handsome poet.”

  They knew Edward!

  “Monsieur Watson is très handsome.” The princess’s impressive bosom rose in admiration.

  “When I saw him, I thought he was poetry himself and ran out for his book,” Lady Winslow said. She coiled a shiny lock around her finger, then let it go. “Horrid stuff, gave me a pounding headache. The physician advised I throw it out because of my particular sensitivities to bad art, else just looking at it might send me into boughs again.”

  Lady Kesseley glanced at Henrietta, a tiny smirk hiking the side of her lips.

  “Ellie,” the princess said in a sing-song voice. “Un homme bel t’attend. He’s come to London just to see you.”

  Lady Kesseley took a sharp intake of breath. Lady Winslow rammed her elbow into her blonde friend’s ribs.

  “Ouch!”

  “A handsome man waits for Mama?” Kesseley lifted a questioning brow at his mother. “Why have I not heard about this suitor? Is he a secret?” he said in mock severity, as he smiled. Lady Kesseley didn’t see any humor. “There isn’t a man waiting for me. The princess is mistaken.”

  Her Highness blinked, confusion creasing her forehead. “Pardon. I thought—”

  Lady Winslow cleared her throat and touched her blonde friend’s arm. “Oh well, we shall ask around the park for brides,” she said brightly. “Perhaps there is an heiress hiding about.” She kissed her hand and blew it to Lady Kesseley as the carriage jolted forward. “Au revoir, my dear, dear darling.”

  Kesseley turned to his mother. “Is a man bothering you?” His voice was thick with that savage male protectiveness.

  “No.”

  “Tell me his name.”

  “For God sakes. I’m not like Henrietta. I can take care of myself.” Lady Kesseley darted across the equestrian traffic, causing several horsemen to quickly rein their horses. Then she disappeared into a small path cutting into the heart of the park.

  Henrietta’s gaze shot to Kesseley’s face. An unvoiced curse formed on his lips, and he headed off after his mother, apologizing to the inconvenienced riders. Henrietta hurried to catch up.

  They found her standing alone beside the Serpentine, looking at her reflection on the water’s surface. The branches of a willow drooped down around her like a leafy picture frame. She made such a lovely, elegant vision that a painter—set up with his easels and paints on the bank a few feet away—stopped in mid-brush stroke to stare.

  Kesseley drew his mother to him. “Who is this man? Do I need to kill him?” he asked gently.

  “He is no one.” She laughed, a brittle sound, and pulled herself free. “Let’s keep walking.”

  Henrietta paused to let them go ahead. She needed space to think about Edward. She looked deep into the water, past her reflection, to the pale fish darting below. A raindrop splashed the water, then another, breaking everything up.

  That was Lady Sara in that daisy bonnet. It had to be. At this very moment, she would be near him, trying to find shelter from the coming rain, feeling the giddy excitement of having him close, their hands touching. Did he kiss Lady Sara too? Did he look at her like she was the most precious thing in the world and whisper sonnets in her ear? Henrietta wondered if Lady Sara even knew about her—the one left behind.

  How invisible she felt. As if in a dream where her house was on fire, but she was unable to move or scream, helpless as the flames grew. Except in this scenario she never woke, forced to watch some little bonnet spotted with daisies steal her life.

  “No, no, don’t leave me, Edward. Don’t leave me like this.”

  “Pardon?” the painter said a few feet away. It took a moment to realize she had spoken aloud. Oh Lud! She was as mad as Papa. Quickly she tried to cover her mistake.

  “I said, umm, no, don’t paint me. Don’t paint me like this. That’s what I said.”

  His bright eyes regarded her warily as one would a lunatic. “I’m not.”

  “Good.”

  She lifted her skirt and hurried past his easel, then stopped. For all his soulful artistic demeanor, he was the worst painter she had ever encountered. Blotches and swirls of paint, it could have been any body of water painted by a three-year-old.

  A mysterious smile played on his face and he scratched his graying bearded chin. “It’s about color. I am trying to capture the exact color of the water as I see it now. This moment.”

  “Oh.”

  “After all, all we have are moments. One after the other, ticking by, then all is gone but the memory of how blue the river was one afternoon in the park.”

  Henrietta paused. “That makes me sad. Time flying away and only blue left.”

  “Perhaps not what you have left. Perhaps all you ever had.”

  Her heart swelled with pain. This was all she would ever have? This heartache? The man gazed at her with ancient eyes, compassionate and deep. “I have to go,” she said, but remained still.

  He looked at her companions, now waiting in the distance. “They will miss you.”

  Henrietta nodded, not speaking, then turned and ran off to catch up with Kesseley and his mother. She took his arm, and they hurried toward the road as drops of rain started pelting down. She glanced over her shoulder as the path turned along a row of oaks. The odd painter stood, unaffected by the rain, watching them.

  Chapter Seven

  At the edge of the park, Kesseley waved down a hackney. The rain came down like a heavy gray wall of water. Everyone crammed inside the carriage that smelled like old stockings. Kesseley wiped the steam off the window. Outside, the people trapped by the rain huddled under coat collars or journals, navigating the muddy streams of filth and trash flowing down the street gutters.

  How could people live year round in this wet, squalid city, breathing its rank air? He hated London.

  Henrietta’s arm brushed his elbow. A drop of rain fell from her black curl onto the edge of her ear, then trailed down her neck. Without thinking, he reached to flicked it away. She tilted her cheek against his fingers. She loved London. And if bringing her here made her happy, it was worth all the filth and chaos.

  The butler ran out with an umbrella to meet them. Kesseley took Henrietta’s arm and led her up the stairs. He could feel his mother’s stare hard on his back, her unspoken words in his ear: You came here to forget about her.

  Kesseley took her to her door. He was about to launch into a casual reminder of dinner when she grabbed his hand. Her eyes were large, her lashes still wet from the rain. She suddenly looked so fragile. Kesseley’s heart swelled like some overprotective goose, ready to challenge any thick-necked, squawking fowl on the pond for her.

  “Kesseley, I saw—” she began, then stopped, the small, soft concave in her throat contracting. “I mean, thank you for…” She rubbed her thumb over his palm. “For being so kind to me.”

  He took her hand and brought it to his lips.

  “Oh, Kesseley,” she whispered.

  A long quiet moment passed between them.

  “I sh-should change for dinner,” she said. Then she slowly closed her door, never taking her eyes from his.

  Kesseley waited. Under the door, he could see the shadow of her feet. She stood just behind the door, inches from himself.

  Was she as paralyzed as he was? Stuck, unwilling to part.

  A tiny tremor ran through him.

  Hope.

  One day soon, he would be on the other side of that door, untying her bonnet, letting her hair fall loose, running his hands down her body to her neat ankles, plucking off her shoes, then lifting her and taking her to that snug little bed, while several stories below, the rain washed London clean.

  He was positively shak
ing as he came down to the kitchen, feeling that sweet, yet scary sensation akin to holding a new calf born too late in the summer. A tiny, fragile miracle about to face the cold winter. Hope and fear.

  In the kitchen pots steamed, and a hen spun in the spit. Along the gleaming wooden table servants laid out china and cutlery. In the center the chef rushed about barking unintelligible orders and waving a large spoon like a baton. Kesseley received a dark, hostile eye when he asked the animated Frenchman, “Is dinner good?”

  The insulted chef broke into a long stream of fast, violent French, waving his arms, whapping various pots with his spoon. The servants scurried to their corners and cowered in fear.

  Kesseley wasn’t sure what the chef said, but he heartily agreed it would be the best dinner of which he would ever partake, and then hastily retreated to his chamber.

  ***

  Baggot gasped when Kesseley opened his clothespress, flipped past all the “yeller” coats and pulled out his only blue one. Why would Kesseley want to wear something that looked like mud?

  Yet Kesseley wouldn’t relent, not tonight, even if it took an hour or more of persuading Baggot. Patiently suffering through his little digs about how gentlemen of good sense listened to the advice of their valets, and why well-dressed, influential gentlemen wore “yeller” coats.

  When finally Kesseley was alone, he slapped cologne on his neck, patted down his side-whiskers and brushed his hair back from his eyes, the way she liked. Henrietta came out of her chamber as he stepped into the corridor, still smoothing his cravat and coattails. She had pulled her hair into a braided knot, letting it fall into ringlets around her dark eyes. She wore the same silvery-white gown he had admired at the Ely assembly last fall. Little rosebuds dotted the sleeves and a beaded lace ruffle ran along the bodice. His sex stirred, as it had when he’d dancing with her those months ago, trying to keep his eyes from straying to that little ruffle flopping under her round breasts.

  She gave Kesseley a flustered smile.

  “Good evening.” He bowed, feeling like his skin could barely contain him. She curtsied. Kesseley’s eyes fell to the tiny ruby pendant falling between her breasts. Her mother’s, he knew. He had diamonds. Many diamonds. He would give them to her.

  “You look very handsome,” she said shyly. Was she as nervous as he?

  “Do you like my coat?” he said. “It’s blue. You said blue matched my eyes.”

  Her brows drew down. “Blue,” she said, like a quiet echo. “It’s very nice.”

  He had this sudden bird-witted fantasy that they were married, that she might reach up and straighten his coat like a fussy wife.

  “Do you think I am—that is, do you think I look pretty?” she asked, a fragile tremble in her voice.

  Stupid Kesseley! He’d forgotten to compliment her! Damn it! He would have to practice being a better husband.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said in a reverent voice.

  He tucked her hand snugly in the crook of his elbow and led her downstairs, hoping she didn’t feel his arm shaking.

  In the dining room, two gold multitiered candelabras flanked the long table. A spotless ironed white tablecloth covered the mahogany wood. Shiny silver was set in intricate formations around the china porcelain plates. Running down the center, the chef’s culinary creations steamed on silver platters. The extravagance reflected his father’s taste, and Kesseley felt a twinge of disgust. He quickly brushed away the dark emotion and thought of Henrietta. Tonight was her first night in London. He wanted it to be everything she’d imagined. He looked in her eyes to see if she approved.

  “It’s lovely,” she said in a soft whisper, squeezing his elbow. “Thank you.”

  Kesseley pulled back her chair. When she sat, his cheek brushed the soft skin of her neck, close enough to smell the rose perfume under her ear. She was like the biblical soft pasture. He could lie down in her until death and not want.

  “I believe we have a footman to do that job,” said a disapproving female voice. His mother stood in the doorway, dressed in a simple yet elegant pale gown, her fair hair swept away from her face. Her gaze moved disapprovingly from Henrietta to Kesseley, the unspoken question what have you done? blazing in her eyes.

  He rose and gave her cheek a curt, perfunctory kiss. “Mama, you look beautiful.”

  “Perhaps not as beautiful as some, it seems,” she replied.

  “Please,” he pleaded under his breath to her. He smiled at Henrietta as he returned to his seat.

  The footman came forward and poured the wine.

  “To London,” Kesseley toasted quickly, so Henrietta wouldn’t see his trembling hand.

  He started to take a sip when his mother added, “May you find the loving wife you deserve. Who has enough sense to appreciate you.”

  “Speaking of wives,” Mama said, no sooner had the glass left her lips. She pulled a letter from the cuff of her sleeve. “I received a note from Lady Winslow and the princess while I was dressing. They have discovered several more potential brides. All wealthy merchants’ daughters. One of them, an American, is quite beautiful. And a little musical genius, according to her Italian music master.”

  She flipped the letter over and read the back. “Also, there are several charming, accomplished young ladies who are not being presented, but are worth considering. One has recently returned from India with her nabob father. She speaks six languages and keeps a monkey. We can get a peek of her, they write, if we attend one of her father’s popular lectures on cartography at the Royal Academy.”

  Lady Kesseley’s gaze shifted in Henrietta’s direction. “How refreshing it is to be away from Norfolk. Here, there are so many well-bred and accomplished ladies to choose from.”

  Damn his mother! Could she not forgive and give Henrietta a second chance? Why did she want everyone to hurt as she had?

  Henrietta murmured a quiet assent as her eyes moistened. She grabbed her glass and held it to her mouth, but didn’t swallow. When she set the glass back down, the tears were gone.

  When they were alone, he would assure her that she was ten times more beautiful, more accomplished, more—well, more everything than the ladies in that letter.

  With his mother holding court at the opposite end of the table, dinner passed in miserable silence. Kesseley had lost his appetite, but felt obliged to eat the French chef’s creation. Henrietta kept her eyes on her plate, making interesting patterns with her food, but never taking a bite.

  As the servants carted away dessert, Lady Kesseley rose and beckoned Henrietta with a curled finger. “Please join me in the parlor.”

  Henrietta obeyed. With her shoulders slumped and eyes downcast, she resembled a chastised child as she followed his mother through the adjacent door.

  Kesseley gulped down his port. He had wanted this first evening to be special. He had to salvage the night for Henrietta’s sake.

  He dashed up to his chamber and opened his desk. Carefully lifting his business papers, he slipped out the three volumes of The Mysterious Lord Blackraven she had lent him. That would get her out of her doldrums! He checked his hair again, slapped on some more cologne.

  Before entering the parlor, he ducked into the dining room, hooked three glasses between his fingers and wedged a decanter of wine into his elbow. He then said a small prayer to whatever saint would listen and entered the parlor.

  Henrietta sat on the sofa, alone, her hands clasped between her knees.

  Where was Mama?

  “Lady Kesseley has excused herself momentarily,” Henrietta said, answering his unasked question.

  Kesseley felt a smile spread across his face. Determined to make the best of Mama’s absence, he poured two glasses of wine, setting Henrietta’s on the table beside her. She gave him a small appreciative smile. He took a seat next to her on the sofa and wiped his hands on his pantaloons.

  “I have a gift for you.” His voice cracked.

  “A gift?” A blush returned to her cheeks. “I don’t need a gift. Bringin
g me to London is a gift.”

  “Just close your eyes.” He took her hands from her lap and nestled the volumes into her palm. “Now open,” he said, still holding her hands.

  “The Mysterious Lord Blackraven!” she exclaimed, looking up at him, her eyes shining. He’d done something right! “You read it!”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you love it?”

  I love you. “No, but I liked the ending. Insane people should be kept together in remote places like Blackraven castle, away from the general population,” he teased.

  “Are you not at all romantic?”

  “Not if by romantic you mean histrionic, insipid and overly sentimental,” Kesseley quipped.

  “You didn’t read the novel correctly.”

  “I started on page one and proceeded to volume three, page three hundred and thirteen.”

  “You see, that is what I mean. You’re too rational, too down-to-earth.” She was smiling again. “You need to relax into the words, let them flow over you like water, let their passion and emotion sweep you away. You make everything so commonplace, so plebian. I know you can’t be so passionless underneath.”

  Passionless? She thought he was passionless?

  Kesseley sat back and rubbed his whiskers, considering her assessment of him. “Perhaps you should read it to me. Show me how to be more passionate, more emotional. What do you say? Like our old toy theatre? Remember?”

  “Are you mocking me?”

  “I would never mock you,” he teased.

  She bit the edge of her lip, causing a dimple on her left cheek. “Fine, if it is a play, then you must be Lord Blackraven, and I shall be Arabellina.”

  He nodded, enjoying himself.

  She took the second volume and flipped through the pages. “Here, this is one of my favorite scenes. She has escaped from the asylum where he put her and has returned to Blackraven castle.”

  “Weren’t all those nuns at the asylum nicer to her than Blackraven?”

  “But she knows Lord Blackraven truly loves her now. She must tell him that she never loved his evil half brother, only him.”