Rakes and Radishes

by Susanna Ives

  ***

  Kesseley headed to Boodles in the early morning, drank three cups of black tea and picked up The London Times. It took him an hour to read the first page, his mind drifting between the sentences.

  You weren’t the one I wanted.

  He despised her. He never thought it possible. He believed himself bigger than to despise anyone, but as much as he tried to press it down, it boiled up inside him. He wanted to hurt her as she had hurt him, although he knew he was a better man than that. He must let go of the past.

  But he couldn’t.

  He wanted revenge, the kind only a perfect world could supply. He envisioned his wedding party, where Henrietta cried at what a horrible mistake she’d made, that he was the only man she could love. I’m sorry, he’d say, his beautiful wife on his arm, but I don’t love you anymore. Stop embarrassing yourself.

  I don’t love you anymore.

  Just thinking it—even if it wasn’t real—made him feel elated, strangely reckless.

  ***

  He couldn’t stay out all afternoon, although he wanted to, for he had an appointment with his new valet. The man was slighter than his brother, the tailor, and more serious. He spoke little English and wore thick spectacles that enlarged his solemn eyes.

  Along with Kesseley’s new clothes wrapped in paper, he brought along his own trunk and a document bearing the names of four Germanic princes—his former employers. He didn’t speak as he examined Kesseley’s clothes press, systematically touching each item, examining the hems and shoulders and seams with no expression on his face. He lifted up every boot and shoe, turned them over, reviewing all sides, then replaced them. He opened Kesseley’s commode and ran his hand across his toilette items.

  Eventually the valet came to stand in the center of the room, like a junior officer who had finished his inventory, waiting to report. Baggot glowered at him from the shadows in the corner.

  Kesseley said, “I am going to a ball tonight—einem Tanz—I want to look better—Ich möchte stattlich sein.” He wished he hadn’t burned Henrietta’s picture of the dandy with the curls. He moved his hand about his head, in spiraling circular motions.

  The valet shook his head. “No, my lord,” he said, then opened Kesseley’s commode and brought out his shears. “Cut.”

  ***

  Henrietta came down for dinner, feeling that she looked lovelier than she ever had in her life. She chose a pale lavender gown, not her prettiest, but one she had worn to Kesseley’s Christmas party when they had danced, making it his. A natural blush tinged her cheeks and an excitement pulsed through her. She had practiced words, so many words, beautiful ones. Promises to be a good wife and mother. To love so deeply, as to make up for every hurting word, angry utterance or broken promise.

  She met Lady Kesseley in the dining room. She had dressed sedately, in an understated gown of pale green. She didn’t compliment Henrietta’s gown or note how lovely Henrietta looked this momentous evening.

  They waited for Kesseley. After several minutes, Lady Kesseley sent the footman to fetch her son. He returned with a message that the lord intended to dine in his chamber.

  The ladies bore the news stoically and passed dinner with few words, both lost in their internal thoughts. Henrietta ate very little, her belly too tight and jittery for food.

  Once retired to the parlor, Lady Kesseley seized Henrietta’s hand, forcing her to sit beside her on the sofa. “Tommie is still angry,” she cried. “I promised him that I would never see Sir Gilling again, but it doesn’t help. He is ashamed of me.”

  “I will try to make everything better,” Henrietta assured her.

  Then she hurriedly changed the subject before Lady Kesseley broke down. For Henrietta only wanted only pleasant, beautiful things this evening, even if she had to force them. So they spoke hollowly of their favorite flowers, samplers they had sewn, whether they liked the minuet or the quadrille better. Wordsworth, Shelley and Byron. All the while the pendulum swung on the clock.

  Where was he? If he didn’t come down soon, there would not be enough time to tell him, for the ball started at eight, and it was eight-fifteen.

  Lady Kesseley and Henrietta discussed table configurations and menus for the winter months.

  Eight-thirty. Still time.

  Lady Kesseley agreed that Huntley caps were very pleasing, but she didn’t favor Mob caps.

  Eight forty-five.

  Maybe Henrietta could lure Kesseley behind a screen of flowers or a tiny terrace at the ball and whisper her revelation.

  Eight-fifty.

  Had he forgotten?

  Eight fifty-six.

  Should she check on him? Perhaps he was ill.

  Nine o’clock.

  “Boxly, call the carriage.” Kesseley’s rich voice sounded through the house.

  Henrietta’s heart surged. Her mouth felt sticky. Her lungs refused to work. He was just beyond the door.

  She felt Lady Kesseley’s wiry fingers pressing hers. “I’ll be good, I will. You must help me.”

  One shiny black shoe in a silken stocking crossed the threshold, followed by tight breeches molded to the contour of hard thighs. A black coat clad powerful shoulders like a second skin, without a wrinkle or crease. Jutting out from the high points of a white collar was a hard, strong jaw. Two startling clear eyes surveyed the room, glittering dangerously. And his hair—all his lovely curls—gone, barbered back to a little more than an inch, including his side whiskers which barely extended beyond his ears. Henrietta never realized what chiseled cheekbones Kesseley possessed or how his brows soared.

  This wasn’t Kesseley. This was a cold rock of a man.

  “You’ve become him,” his mother whispered.

  She was more coherent than Henrietta. All Henrietta’s words, everything she dreamed, all her planning skittered away.

  She didn’t know this man.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The ballroom walls were cover in muted gold silk and held expansive paintings of the host’s noble ancestors. One ruddy-faced gentleman was painted with a gun barrel cradled in the crook of his elbow and a hound at his feet. Another more dour relation wore a white wig and posed beside a globe. These were the only distinguishing features separating this ballroom from the last.

  Kesseley had not said a single word to her, not even taken her arm at the carriage. Where before she had fantasized about an impassioned kiss and a promise for forever behind a large fern or screen, she now wished for the same such concealment to shake Kesseley and demand to know what he was doing.

  After greeting the host and hostess, Lady Kesseley remained true to her word and headed for the mamas sitting in rows like ornamental chickens in a henhouse, watching their daughters and sons on the dance floor.

  Henrietta peeked at Kesseley. He showed no expression, surveying the crowd, unaffected by the blatant stares of other guests. His eyelids just drooped as if bored of the scene. Those weren’t his eyes. The man she loved had eyes that were alive and delighted, like a small child’s in awe of the caterpillar’s cocoon or the perfect angle of geese flying overhead.

  “Perhaps I should join your mother?” she offered tentatively, hoping he might say something to the contrary, like no, Henrietta, perhaps we should dance? He looked down at her and gave her a quick smile. Henrietta almost burst.

  Oh, Kesseley, smile at me again.

  “There’s Edward. It would be rude not to speak.” His voice was low, silky in its derision.

  What? No, no, not Edward. You!

  But before she could protest, he grabbed her elbow and pulled her into the crowd. Henrietta practically had to run to keep up with his long strides. People made room for him as he passed. The more dashing ladies’ eyes glittered with appreciation of his hard, elegant lines. He acknowledged them with a slight hike of his brows and a slow smile, like an intimate invitation. Where had he learned that? He never smiled that way for her. Henrietta’s insides burned with jealousy, and she wanted to shout at those welcoming fe
males.

  Don’t look at him like that. This is not Kesseley. The real Kesseley knows the correct nitrogen ratio for manure and how to birth a cow. That’s not very dashing, is it?

  Lady Sara and Edward waited at the edge of the room, under the orchestra den, about to step onto the dance floor where dancers were assembling for a waltz.

  ***

  Lady Sara wore that pale pink only blondes could wear, with a low, ruffled bodice revealing her supple breasts. Her lush lips formed an O when she saw Kesseley and the arm holding Edward’s elbow dropped to her side.

  Edward, unaware of Kesseley sweeping toward him, was caught off guard.

  “Mr. Watson, a pleasure to see you again.” Kesseley yanked her forward so abruptly that she almost stumbled. “You remember your cousin Henrietta, don’t you?”

  Edward didn’t acknowledge her, but his eyes fixed on Kesseley. “You’ve changed.”

  He snorted derisively. “It’s rather poetic, isn’t it, my good fellow—change. The flux of being. Suns born, new worlds discovered, old worlds conquered, civilizations dying, birth and death over and over again.”

  “You forget love, my lord,” Lady Sara said quietly. Henrietta could almost see her heart fluttering under her breasts. “Are not some of the greatest poems about love?”

  Kesseley paused. A predatory smile spread across his lips. “Perhaps the illusion of love. I, however, no longer believe in love.”

  His melodramatic words could have come straight out of The Mysterious Lord Blackraven.

  “Perhaps you have never met a lady to properly show you love,” she suggested innocently.

  “All ladies are quite the same really,” he said. “Cruelty behind their beautiful facades. I have yet to find one worthy of my devotion.”

  His words slashed Henrietta’s heart. She let out a small squeak of pain.

  “A-are you enjoying the ball, Lord Kesseley?” Lady Sara asked, a pretty blush coloring her cheeks.

  “No, I find these affairs a dead bore.”

  “What do you enjoy then? Swine?” Lady Sara was both teasing and provoking, trying to keep his attention.

  Kesseley regarded her for a moment. Henrietta could see some thought ticking behind his gray eyes. He cocked his head. “I enjoy reading.”

  “And what do you read, my lord?” Lady Sara continued.

  “Some poetry, some prose.” He brazenly ran his gaze up Lady Sara’s curves, stopping at her face. “The works of a Mrs. Fairfax.”

  I told you that! Henrietta fumed. You blackguard. You’re making a may game of Lady Sara!

  But Lady Sara fell for it. She raised a hand to her breasts. “I-I read Mrs. Fairfax.”

  “Do you?” An infuriating smile lazed on his lips.

  Lady Sara nodded, her mouth agape.

  “Dark prose for such tender years. Does your papa know?” Kesseley laughed as if pleased with his little performance and started to walk away.

  “Perhaps you enjoy dancing, my lord?” Lady Sara called after him.

  He halted, turned, his eyes glittering dangerously. “I wound who dances with me.”

  Oh dear God!

  Lady Sara stepped forward. “I think you will find I won’t break so easily.”

  “You won’t?” He gave her a dark, intimate look that could break a lady without laying a finger on her. Lady Sara audibly gulped. Taking her hand, Kesseley kissed it slowly, keeping his eyes on her face as Edward looked on.

  Henrietta pressed her fingers on her mouth, remembering how he had expertly kissed her the night before. How his hands had caressed her as if he knew how to touch a woman. She knew Kesseley’s favorite dessert was quince tart, that he had a nice baritone voice but rarely sang and that he kept a journal of his sketches and ideas in his library where he would work late in the evenings by a wood fire. But Kesseley the man was an enigma. She knew nothing of the lips he had kissed before hers, or of the ladies he must have known in the most intimate manner. Yet, he seemed to have had a great deal of practice.

  “I believe a lady of such delicate bones as yours might snap like a twig under me,” he said, Lady Sara’s hand still in his.

  “You do not know me, my lord,” she said.

  Kesseley arched an eyebrow. “I don’t? Well, I think I do. Dance for me.” He swept Lady Sara away from Edward.

  “What does he think he is doing?” Edward hissed.

  “It seems pretty apparent!” Henrietta cried without thinking.

  This was Henrietta’s evening! Hers! When she admitted everything in her soul to Kesseley—all her beautiful words, the tender dreams in her heart. And he was dancing with another lady! They were supposed to be engaged by now, discussing how to tell their parents, planning the wedding, thinking up names for their children. But her lovely plans were slipping away from her and she could do nothing to stop it.

  Edward yanked her into the swirl of dancers. “We’re dancing. And don’t look so lost. Gaze at me like you used to.”

  “Pardon?”

  “That in love look that always made me nervous. Look like that again.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “For God sakes, Henrietta! You’re in love with me.”

  “No, I’m not!”

  At least Edward had the presence of mind to keep count with the dance. She stumbled along, unable to dance, have her heart broken and converse at the same time.

  “Then why did you follow me to London?” he said. “I know being a companion is a ruse. You and Lady Kesseley never got along. I bet you tricked Kesseley into bringing you here because he was always so sweet on you.”

  “Are you saying I used Kesseley?” Her voice cracked with hurt. Henrietta tried to drop Edward’s hand, but he held tight, not letting her escape the dance.

  “You always used Kesseley. We would laugh about it.”

  “I did not,” she whispered, hot tears swelling in the edges of her eyes. All those tiny, inconsequential promises she had made to Kesseley—and then broken—came hounding back to her conscious, like money collectors demanding their due with interest. Edward narrowed his eyes at Lady Sara. “We were supposed to be married.”

  “You’d better remind her!” Henrietta cried, for it didn’t look like Lady Sara remembered.

  Kesseley raised Lady Sara’s arm, letting her twirl underneath and he kept his hand on her waist. They looked apart from the rest of the dancers, better, more beautiful, their elegant bodies moving in graceful unison. He leaned down and whispered to her. She flushed, her pale skin turning a lovely pink. As if feeling the heat of Henrietta’s stare, Kesseley turned slightly, giving her the full force of his devastating smile.

  She stopped. Edward stumbled on to her, causing her to fall backward. He caught her. “Are you well?”

  “No!” Henrietta cried and fled, dodging all the dancers, running past the main stairs into the dressing room. A servant looked up and asked if she required anything. Yes, I require Kesseley, the old Kesseley, who was always sweet on me, she thought. She emitted a strangled cry, hurried out and blindly reached for a door. The servants’ stairs. She closed herself in.

  She squeezed her bottom lip between her teeth and closed her eyes. She couldn’t cry here, not at the ball, not where everyone could see. But the tears spilled out anyway.

  She blew on her face, trying to think of obscure mathematical formulas, anything to block the image of Kesseley whispering in Lady Sara’s ear and that lazy, self-satisfied smile playing on his lips. Her whole evening had fallen into shambles. How had everything gone so badly wrong? Yet in her heart, she knew the answer. Edward was right, she had used Kesseley. She deserved this hurt.

  The waltz ended, and a new song began, a minuet. She waited several more minutes before she heard the shuffle of feet below. Her little retreat was about to be invaded. She opened the door and stepped out, wiping the last of her tears away.

  Peering into the ballroom, she didn’t see him. Just beyond the treacherous battlefield of dancers waited the card room.
She would be safe there.

  “You really ought to thank me,” a deep male voice said.

  Henrietta whirled around just as Kesseley disengaged himself from a group of laughing bucks clustered along the wall. The rakish Lord Blackraven demeanor had disappeared, but the coldness remained.

  “Lady Sara already promised me a second dance, and her father invited me to their house party after the Season. I think the one you always wanted might be free after all.”

  “What do you think you are doing?”

  “What you told me to do,” he said, as if it were a bird-witted question. Then he drew down his eyebrows, looking very much like a hawk ready to swoop on its prey. “Come to think of it, perhaps I should thank you.” He laughed, paying her a low, mocking bow.

  ***

  Henrietta wandered into the card room, dazed. Mrs. Whitmore, with her flaming hair and jewels, recognized her and waved her over to their table. Greetings and introductions were exchanged. Then Henrietta picked her cards and hid behind them.

  Even numbers failed her this evening. All the suits blurred together in her head. She couldn’t remember what cards were played, which suit was trump. And it was so hot in the card room that the chandelier dripped hot wax down onto her arm.

  But that didn’t burn as much as watching Kesseley in the ballroom twirling different ladies, all of them too eager to have their toes broken. Henrietta tried to keep her eyes on her cards, but she couldn’t stop herself from watching him, like an urge to cut herself with her own knife. Her whole inside ached. How could she have been so stupid, blind, ignorant, impetuous, cruel, so—so everything?

  She clutched her mother’s pendant tight in her hand.

  Mama, I’ve lost him.

  In the third game of the last rubber, Mrs. Whitmore said, “Look, Lord Kesseley is dancing with Lady Sara again. I think her father will be very pleased.”

  The game paused and the players put their cards to their chests and watched the pair. Lord Kesseley held Lady Sara in his arms, her vivid blue eyes gazing up at his face. Clearly smitten.