by Susanna Ives
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she whispered and fled.
“Wait! Henrietta!” She heard Lady Kesseley call behind her but Henrietta couldn’t go back. She rounded the stairs and then stopped short.
Kesseley waited at the banister. Their eyes met. His mouth twitched and for a moment she thought he would say something. Instead, he turned and went into his chamber, closing the door behind him.
Henrietta took her bonnet and pelisse from her chamber and walked out of the house, without a footman or Samuel. They would reprimand her, but she couldn’t take anyone or anything crowding her thoughts, demanding her attention.
The sun was bright and high in the sky. Large cauliflower-shaped clouds billowed above the treetops and roofs. She passed through the outer ring of Hyde Park into the familiar spot by the Serpentine.
She hoped he would be there, then admonished herself. Of course, he wouldn’t. Why did she always hope, only to be let down again?
She could see the old bench where the philosopher shared his chocolate with her. A mother and her son sat there. She suddenly wanted to cry.
Can’t I at least just sit on the bench? Can’t I have something I want?
Just as Henrietta resigned herself to sitting on the grass and ruining her gown, the mother and son suddenly left, and the bench was vacant. Henrietta scurried forward, claiming it as her own.
She squinted until the water reflected like jewels on the surface. For a small second, everything seemed to lift from her. But then it all came back, refusing to be hushed or solaced.
“I brought you a small present,” she heard a man call behind her.
She whipped around. There was her friend, with his wild white hair shooting out from the edges of his hat. The edges of his easel pointed out from his back and his cracked leather satchel hung from his shoulder.
“Thank God you’re here!” she cried. “I thought you had gone away to Africa or India!”
“No. Just wandering through the countryside and old memories.” He set his satchel on the bench, dug around in it and brought out a gray shale rock streaked with thin white veins of calcium.
“A rock?” Henrietta said, perplexed, taking it into her hand.
“This is from Lyme, where one afternoon I picnicked among the tall brown grass and listened to the waves rolling onto the beach.” He pulled out a rolled-up canvas and opened it, revealing a splotchy painting vaguely resembling a beach with sun setting on the ocean’s horizon. The sky glowed luminous shades of oranges and pinks.
“I got your rock here.” He pointed to the gray, round stones lining the beach.
Henrietta turned her little stone over in her hand, feeling its weight and solidness. Her throat hurt as she tried to speak.
“Lady Kesseley still loves you,” she finally said. “You must go to her. I can take you.”
He sat on the bench, leaned his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together. “I can’t.”
“What?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not? Isn’t that why you are here? You can’t just come this far and stop. She loves you.”
“What did she say when you told her I was here?”
“I didn’t tell her. She doesn’t know you’re here.”
He rose, suddenly agitated, rubbing his large palms on his pantaloons. “What did she tell you about me?”
“She loved you and rejected you and when you put her in a boat on a pond. I figured it out. You had inscribed a book of Kant to her. If the world is my perception, then I am in love with the world for wherever I look, I see only Eleanora. Then your name—Danny Elliot.”
He gave a snort. “Did she tell you anything else? About anything that happened after?”
“No.”
“My dear, there isn’t enough forgiveness in the world for the pain I caused her. You just have the sweet memory of how it all started, but not the end. Yes, Lady Kesseley rejected me, but my circumstances changed and I used them to hurt her. Irreparably.”
“But I think she will forgive you. She needs you. I know it.”
“Why does this matter so much to you?”
“Because you must forgive each other, you must, because something has to be right. Something has to be redeemed.” Henrietta started to weep and covered her face.
“Come here.” He wrapped his arms around her, embracing her in front of all the ducks, swans and people passing. “What happened?”
“I told him I loved him, and he told me I was too late.” The remainder of the story fell out, blabbered on his shoulder, more horrifying in the retelling. She finished with the announcement to be made at a ball that evening.
“Oh, my sweet child. I wish I could say something to make it better, but I can’t.”
She pushed him away.
“Yes, you can. You can tell Lady Kesseley you love her!”
“You don’t understand.”
“What do I not understand? You told me to tell Kesseley that I loved him, even if it was hopeless, but I did. And now I tell you to do the same thing and you can’t!”
“Henrietta—”
“You wanted me to tell her I found you in the park, didn’t you? You wanted me to tell her because you couldn’t.”
“Perhaps.”
“Were you ever my friend? Did you even mean the words you said? Or were they just pretty things you thought I wanted to hear?”
“No, I—”
“All this time, you made me believe you were wise with your stories and exotic fruit. All we have is this moment, the blue of sky. You’re a coward. You didn’t go on all those adventures, you ran away!”
“Forgiveness is not that easy!”
“Clearly, since I’m the only one willing to do it!” Henrietta stomped away, then turned back. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell her, because she’s been hurt enough. I have to know you will be there for her. Will you?”
He sunk his head in his hands. “I don’t know.”
“Then I suppose her memories are better.” Henrietta turned the rock over in her hand, wondering if years from now, when she took it out of some memory box, it would still be fresh and sweet in her memory when all the other pain had long been worn down.
“Goodbye,” she whispered.
***
Boxly opened the door. Henrietta searched his face for disapproval, but found none in his placid expression. “This letter arrived for you, miss,” he said, and placed it in her hand.
Samuel—by some intuitive canine knowledge—knew she had gone to the park without him and came bounding down the stairs. He sniffed Henrietta’s skirt to confirm his suspicion, then sat back on his hind legs and emitted low cries. She knelt down to console him.
“Samuel, I will take you later. I promise. I just had to be alone.” He licked her face. “I know you can’t understand” He tried to scrunch his thick body into her lap. “Yes, you’re still my favorite hound.”
“Down, Samuel.” She heard Kesseley’s voice booming from above. He came down the stairs, his buckled shoes clicking on the steps, his evening clothes under his greatcoat. He gripped his hat in his hand.
She clutched Samuel, her muscles going loose. Kesseley was so beautiful.
“Good evening,” he said, making a slight bow.
Henrietta rose and brushed the dog fur from her gloves onto her pelisse. “Are you leaving? You’re not dining with us?”
“No.” They stood together, silent as prayer, while she waited for the impossible—for him to say he loved her again.
“You look very handsome,” she whispered. “I hope Lady Sara knows how lucky she is, for she is marrying the finest gentleman in England.”
“You know I am not.”
“Yes, you are.” She held his gaze to hers. His eyes were an impenetrable cold gray, no light inside. “I sincerely hope you will be very happy.”
“Thank you.” He brushed past her, putting on his hat. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the door to close.
“You will marry
a good man and have beautiful children,” she heard him say. “He will give you everything I couldn’t. You will forget all about London—and about me.”
She turned. “Do you truly think so?” She could more easily perform miracles than love another man.
“Yes,” he said, his lips thin as a knife’s blade. He paused for a moment, gazing at her, and then he opened the door and left.
Not possessing the strength to make it up two flights, Henrietta collapsed onto the rosewood parlor chair. She untied her bonnet and let it fall on the floor. Samuel put his paws in her lap, bending the letter lying there.
She recognized her father’s barely legible scratch on the address.
Inside were two letters, the first a curt message from her father. He and Mr. Van Heerlen had arrived at Greenwich Park in the morning. They were staying at The Green Man in chambers seven and eight—very nice accommodations that Mr. Van Heerlen had suggested. He had forgotten his hairbrush. A carriage would be sent for her tomorrow in the late afternoon.
The other letter was penned in a more elegant hand.
My Dearest Miss Watson,
I do not recall if the trip was hard. It might have been. The hotel in Royster may have been drafty, and the wine watered down to a pale pink. I did not think of these things. I thought only of tomorrow evening and yourself. Lesser men win ladies with their athletic prowess or by executing chasse or glissade, but I shall endeavor to turn the telescope to the sky and find the elusive heavens for you.
Knowing you are not seven miles from me makes my heart long to fly from here and find you. I wish I could steal away. I am impatient for tomorrow evening. Unable to concentrate upon these old numbers and pages, my mind turns to our beautiful future.
Your faithful servant,
Pieter Van Heerlen
Kesseley’s shiny crested carriage lurched off the curb. He sat back in the shadows. How much time did he have? Ten minutes? He tried to practice.
Lady Sara, please do me the honor of…
The carriage stopped in front of the Duke of Houghton’s white boxy mansion. Hedged boxwoods ran in two parallel lines to the entrance.
Kesseley’s heart contracted—he felt dizzy. He couldn’t do it. Not yet. He needed a place to hide where no one knew him for a few minutes, just until he could get his thoughts straightened.
He knocked on the carriage roof. “Take me to the Strand.”
On the Strand the merchants were lighting their torches and locking the doors to their shops. A few drops of rain fell from the dense clouds overhead.
Kesseley sent the carriage back to Curzon Street and then walked down to the corner. He turned down a small alley by a print shop. A large rendering of a British warship firing its cannon into a white smoky cloud hung in the window, smaller illustrations around it. He didn’t stop to view the prints, but headed to the Thames.
He thought of his future bride. Lady Sara would just be a beautiful face to the world, diverting its attention while he did as he pleased. Few of his station had the luxury of something more than an agreeable marriage. It was a business arrangement, like selling a breeding mare. Yet he knew every time that he would touch his bride, he would wish she were Henrietta. As Lady Sara lay under him, he would pretend he was making love to Henrietta.
He had the sensation that he was no longer looking down at the water, but had sunken below and looked up to the water’s surface from the bottom. As if he had drowned in the brown stinking waters of London.
The rain began to come down in hard drops, splattering the Thames. Kesseley wandered up to the Strand and into the tavern with those old crosshatched panes like in Henrietta’s house. He ordered a brandy and set his pocket watch on the table. The coal quietly hissed in the chimney. He leaned his head back over the edge of his chair and closed his eyes. Henrietta filled his mind. She had looked so fragile when he left. He wished he could have kissed her and assured her the best part of him would always love her.
He wished…
Everything was hopeless now. He had put his life into this knot. He could only tighten the strings until it couldn’t come undone. Until he could finally silence that damned hope niggling inside him.
Five minutes before eight, he gulped down the remainder of his brandy and restored his watch to his chain. Leaving the tavern, he lowered the brim of his hat and strode against the slanting rain back to the protective ledge of the print shop by the hackney stop. When a hack didn’t arrive after a minute, he turned to read the prints under the gaslight that was mounted beside the door. The same illustration was repeated in the windows like wallpaper. Kesseley’s jaw tensed as he studied the caricature. Atop a bed, a diminutive lady with long black curls and clad in a loose chemise played cards with several foppish gentlemen. At her side, covering her bared breast with his hand, was Kesseley. He could scarce read the caption for the black spots blinding his eyes. The Little Companion.
How dare they! Henrietta was an innocent. She had nothing to do with anything. The lecherous illustrator had had the good sense not to leave any initial, else Kesseley would have hunted him down and put a bullet through him, then gladly hung for it.
He had to get back to Curzon Street and stop her. Then the terrible realization sunk into his mind. He was too late! The ball had already started.
He had to get to her before the others did.
With no hack in sight, he took to his heels and rushed into the darkened park.
***
Henrietta came to a halt in the grand entrance of the Duke of Houghton’s London mansion. She had never seen such opulence firsthand and had to turn about on her heel and marvel at the architecture. The house was like a regular cathedral on Piccadilly. Every little detail was a masterpiece. Above her were stacked balcony upon balcony, all lined with tall Greek columns. She had to squint to see the ceiling. Framed in gilded stucco ovals were murals of angels hovering about the masts of British battleships. A marble stair that ran the entire length of the back wall led to a platform flanked by statues of Greek goddesses in flowing gowns. From there, the stairs split into two smaller staircases that wound in graceful curves to the floor above.
“Come,” Lady Kesseley said, tugging Henrietta’s arm. She seemed unmoved by the splendor about her, as if it were commonplace. Henrietta realized she was just the mere daughter of an eccentric astronomer. She didn’t belong in this world. Yet Kesseley and his mother were welcomed with open arms. It was so easy for her to forget amongst the radishes and sheep that Kesseley was an earl. That he had even loved her or been her dearest friend was a miracle.
Now the only way she could love Kesseley was by letting him go into this beautiful world and praying for his happiness.
As Henrietta lifted the ruffled edge of her gown to mount the stairs, Lady Kesseley squeezed her elbow. “Let us stay together. I need you.”
Guests mingling on the balcony turned their heads as she and Lady Kesseley approached. Their conversation stopped, fans shot up like walls. When they passed through the tall double doors and into the ballroom, a hush rippled through the room in a concentric circle around her.
“What has happened?” Lady Kesseley cried.
Lady Winslow and the princess broke through the crowd and rushed forward. Lady Sara glided across the glossy wood floor, a rustling flutter of white silk. But His and Her Grace reached Henrietta and Lady Kesseley first, having pushed past the line of yet-to-be-welcomed guests.
The duke made a slight, hurried bow, his eyes like sharp nails in his doughy face. “My dear Lady Kesseley, so wonderful to see you. There is an extraordinary rumor circulating this evening. Of course, it can’t be true. However, perhaps your companion would care to stay in the library—it would be more comfortable for her.”
“W-what?” Henrietta said, confused.
“I have heard no rumor,” Lady Kesseley said, a shrill edge to her voice.
The duke and duchess looked at each other, each wanting the other to speak.
Lady Winslow reached them, all
the usual languidness gone from her voice. “I didn’t know until I got here just a few minutes before. I sent a footman to try to stop you. It seems a scurrilous caricature of Henrietta has been circulating in London this afternoon.”
Henrietta didn’t understand. What had she done? The only thing she could think of was that someone had seen her alone in the park with Mr. Elliot. “The embrace was innocent, I assure you.”
The duchess let out a shriek. Houghton gave his wife a squelching glance, and she covered her thin mouth with her hand.
“I believe you will find the library most accommodating,” the duke said and grabbed Henrietta’s arm so tightly it hurt and pulled her back onto the balcony. He motioned to a footman with his free hand. “See to Miss Watson’s comfort.”
“No!” Lady Kesseley cried, catching up to Henrietta. “Miss Watson is a well-mannered young lady. I beg you, you must let her stay and show everyone these rumors, whatever they may be, are unfounded.”
The duke’s fat cheeks turned crimson, not expecting opposition. He spoke in a fast, harsh whisper so that the guests crowding the ballroom door couldn’t hear. “Lady Kesseley, it has been alleged in the lewdest way that Miss Watson is your son’s mistress.”
“Make her leave, Papa!” Lady Sara wailed.
The guests crowded at the ballroom entrance, like buzzards waiting in trees.
Henrietta felt dizzy, hot perspiration moistened her skin. “No, it’s not true,” she said faintly.
“Of course it’s not.” The duke kept his grip on her arm. He dragged her toward the shadows of the mansion’s left wing, hidden behind four tall Grecian columns. “But given the forthcoming union—”
“Henrietta!” Kesseley’s rich timbre echoed through the hall. Those on the stairs gave way to him as he took the grand staircase two steps at a time, water dripping from his hat and coat. He raced across the balcony. The duke pulled Henrietta to his chest, like a shield.
Kesseley stopped short and glared at Houghton. He held out his hand to Henrietta. “Miss Watson, come away.”
“But we are supposed to be engaged!” Lady Sara cried.
