by Kelly Bowen
She’s had the pleasure of my protection, after all, and I’m nearly certain when I ended our affair, her heart was broken for all time. I did her a very great favor, if so, for what woman plying the oldest trade has any need for tender sentiment or permanent attachments?
She has your hair, Henrietta,” Isabel said, taking a seat across the kitchen table. “I think Thad is pleased by that. Philip’s two got it as well.”
Henrietta stroked the downy head pillowed on her shoulder. “The little ones all have Mama’s hair. I hope the children got Mama’s sweet nature too.”
Isabel searched through a bowl of whole cloves. “You have a sweet nature.”
“You’re being kind.” Both brothers, and their wives, and even Alexander and Dicken were being kind, treating Henrietta with the unfailing cheer of those on nursing duty in a sickroom. She was sick—at heart—but her family need not know that.
“I’m being honest,” Isabel said, jabbing a clove into an orange. “If you’d been less sweet, the squire would never have been so daft as to think he could marry you off to Charles Sampson. Those oldest three sons of his have gambled away half his fortune, and the second Mrs. Sampson is rarely out of childbed.”
The kitchen was perfumed with cloves and oranges, and the baby was a warm bundle of joy in Henrietta’s arms. Isabel’s words were an odd sort of comfort too.
Henrietta had been sweet, far too sweet. “I didn’t know Mr. Sampson had remarried.”
“Mrs. Sampson got a procession of runny noses and lazy housemaids. You got London and the company of dukes, from what I hear.”
Isabel selected another clove from the dish, her focus overly intent.
“Only two dukes, Isabel, and they’re much like any other man. One of them snored a bit and had a cold nose, which he delighted in nuzzling against my neck. The other fretted endlessly over his three sisters and had a fondness for chocolate.”
Isabel popped the clove into her mouth. “No orgies, then?”
“Not a one. I would have sent any man who suggested such foolishness on his way with a flea in his ear.”
“And they would have departed on your whim,” Isabel said. “You’re not sweet, biddable Hen anymore. Has that child gone to sleep?”
A quiet slurping near Henrietta’s ear suggested otherwise. “Not quite. How many cloves will you stick into that poor orange?”
The hapless fruit resembled a beribboned mace from days of old. Isabel set it aside and plucked another orange from a bowl on the table and measured off a length of red ribbon.
“So what now, Hen? You’ve made your fortune, turned your back on Sodom, and here you are. The whole shire knows you bided with the squire for most of this week, and we’ll drag you to services on Sunday if you like. If you were here to make a point, you’ve made it.”
“I am here to enjoy my family’s company over the holidays,” Henrietta said, though also, apparently, to make a point. “Attending services needn’t be part of the bargain. Papa allowed me to bide with him, but he might as well have been billeting a French prisoner of war for all the hospitality he extended.”
The squire had barely spoken to her, had barely acknowledged her at meals. Henrietta had been tolerated under her father’s roof because to toss her out would have created more scandal than to allow her a few days at her childhood home.
And that tolerance had been more hurtful than all his years of distance, oddly enough.
Isabel cut the red ribbon with a single snip of the shears. “Do you believe that if you attend services, then you can’t go back to your old life? Is waking up in the middle of the night to a duke’s cold nose pressed to your neck that thrilling? I can suggest a few dogs who’d be as obliging, though they might not pay you in any coin but loyalty and devotion.”
The baby sighed, and no exhalation was ever softer than a baby’s sigh.
“She might be falling asleep now,” Henrietta said.
“Good. I suspect the poor thing is getting ready to present us with a few teeth, and that’s always an occasion for misery.”
Isabel wrapped the ribbon about the orange with an expert flip and a twist, such that the fruit could be tied to any handy rafter or curtain rod. Henrietta had dealt with her partners in much the same way.
Flattery, affection, an interest in the man’s welfare, a semblance of friendship always bounded by pragmatism. When the gentleman grew too demanding or restless, a subtle cooling from Henrietta was all it took to nudge him out the door and add another diamond necklace to her collection.
The oranges Isabel decorated would shrivel and turn brown, then be tossed to the hogs, no matter how pleasing their fragrance now.
“I don’t want to go back to what I was,” Henrietta said, “but I’m not sure in what direction I should move next.”
Michael Brenner’s image came to mind as Henrietta had last seen him. He’d followed her out to the drive at Inglemere, bowed over her hand in parting, and remained bare-headed at the foot of his front steps, his hair whipping in the winter breeze as the coach had taken off down the drive.
He’d looked lonely. Papa had looked lonely when Henrietta had packed up her coach and taken herself to Thad’s house. Her next stop would be Philip’s, after Christmas, but then…
Would Michael still be at Inglemere when the new year came?
“Has Thad ever broken your heart?” Henrietta asked.
Visiting with Isabel wasn’t so different from visiting with other courtesans. Henrietta had somehow concluded that decent women sat about discussing the weather or recipes for tisanes rather than men and teething babies.
Courtesans had all too many babies, and all too many men.
“He came close,” Isabel said, impaling the second orange with its first clove. “The year after we were married, I thought I was carrying, though it came to nothing, and that unnerved him. He got a bit too close to Penelope Dortmund, who’d been widowed the year before. She had the knack of grieving ever so prettily.”
Henrietta had not been invited to her younger brother’s wedding or any of the christenings. “What happened?”
Isabel jabbed three more cloves into the orange. “I saw them in the livery, literally rolling in the hay, though Thad hadn’t got under her skirts yet. When he came home, I plucked a bit of hay from his hair and told him only a very foolish man would sleep beside one woman while playing her false with another. He barely tipped his hat to the widow after that.”
“You forgave him?”
Isabel set the orange aside and took another from the bowl, a perfectly ripe fruit. She tore a section of peel off, then another.
“Have you seen Izzy’s cradle, Henrietta?”
“It’s gorgeous.” The cradle was made of polished oak—a heavy, durable wood that wasn’t easy to work with. The oak was carved with flowers, a rabbit, a kitten, and the words Mama and Papa Will Always Love You.
Henrietta couldn’t stand to touch it. Another one very much like it lay in the squire’s attics.
“Thad made that cradle. Stayed up late, worked on Sundays. He said it wasn’t labor, it was love for the child I carried that sent him out to his woodshop. He built this house for us. He puts food on my table and coal in my hearth. He’s not perfect, but neither am I. The widow wanted a stolen moment, but Thad asked me for my entire future. For better or for worse means for better or for worse.”
She passed Henrietta a section of orange, then took one for herself.
“You love each other.” The words hurt.
“Mostly. We used to argue more than we do now. Izzy helps. Thad adores that child.”
The baby was fast asleep, an innocent, endlessly lovable little being who years from now might roll in the hay with the wrong man, or disappoint her papa in a fit of indignation. Henrietta hugged the baby close, and that, of course, woke the child.
“She’ll be hungry,” Isabel said, wiping her fingers on a towel. “Give her to me, and you can finish this orange. So will you go to services with us on Sund
ay?”
Isabel put the child to the breast while Henrietta took up stabbing cloves into the thick rind of the orange.
“I don’t know about attending services. I think so. I’ll scandalize the entire congregation.”
“If they can’t muster a bit of warm-heartedness at Christmas, then they’re not much of a congregation, are they?”
“I wasn’t much of a courtesan,” Henrietta said, wondering why she’d taken ten years to realize this. “Papa never bade me come home, I was ruined, and I simply didn’t know what else to do.” And there Beltram had been, just full of suggestions and bank drafts, when it was clear that a life in service would mean more Beltrams who wouldn’t bother to pay for the favors they sought.
Henrietta was abruptly glad Michael had pitched the bloody book into the fire.
“You’re home now,” Isabel said. “That’s a start. I didn’t realize Thad had taken the sleigh over to Philip’s.”
Henrietta went to the window, because the rhythmic jingle of bells heralded a conveyance coming up the drive.
Not Michael.
“It’s Papa, driving himself, and both Thad and Philip are with him. He’ll catch his death if he doesn’t wear a scarf in this weather.”
Papa was coming to call at a house where Henrietta dwelled. She did not know what to feel, and now, unlike the past ten years, her feelings mattered. Did she want to see her father when he was being such a pestilential old curmudgeon?
Did she care that he’d come to call on a house where she dwelled just days after waving her on her way?
“You’ll have to see to him,” Isabel said with a glance at the baby. “Izzy does not care for the company of her grandpapa, and the squire doesn’t think to lower his voice around a small child. He walks into the room and she fusses. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
Voices and heavy footsteps sounded in the hall above.
“Henrietta Eloisa! I know you’re here because your coach yet sits in the carriage house at the livery. Show yourself this instant and prepare to go calling with your family!”
“Has he been drinking?” Henrietta muttered, gathering up her shawl. “I cannot tolerate an intemperate man.”
“He never drinks to excess. Go see what he wants, and recall that it’s Christmas, Henrietta. Dredge up some charity for a lonely old man, because when you leave here, the rest of us have to put up with his moods and demands.”
“You don’t have to, actually,” Henrietta said, taking a moment to arrange her shawl before starting for the stairs at a decorous pace. “You never did.”
* * *
Michael closeted himself in the library—the last place Henrietta had kissed him—but he couldn’t focus on work. He’d written to Beltram, one sentence informing his lordship that the book had been destroyed by fire before Michael’s very eyes.
Had Michael’s future with Henrietta been destroyed as well?
The door opened, revealing Michael’s butler. “You have callers, my lord. Squire Josiah Whitlow and company. I put them in the family parlor because it’s the only one with a fire.”
Wright’s words held reproach, for a proper lord would expect callers at the holidays and keep the formal parlor heated for the vicar and the second parlor toasty for the neighbors.
“Thank you, Wright,” Michael said, turning down his cuffs and shrugging into his coat. “Please send up a tray on our best everyday service with a few biscuits or some shortbread. Did the squire bring his sons?”
“He did, sir.” Wright bowed and withdrew on a soft click of the door latch. Wright would have made a good spy, except a palpable air of consequence enveloped him whether he was polishing the silver or lining the staff up to welcome Michael home.
Back to Inglemere—not home.
Perhaps Squire Whitlow was visiting for the purpose of calling Michael out, which occasion would necessitate the presence of the sons, who’d serve as seconds. Hardly a holiday sentiment, calling on a man on Christmas Eve to announce an intent to end his days.
Would Henrietta care? Other duels had been fought over her, but she was retired, and the last thing Michael wanted was to give her more cause for upset.
Then too, Michael was a baron now, and strictly speaking, a titled man did not duel with his social inferiors. He paused for one fortifying moment outside the parlor, then made a brisk entrance and stopped short.
“Mr. Whit… low.”
Michael remained in the doorway, gawping like an idiot, for Henrietta graced his family parlor. She was resplendent in yards of purple velvet with red trim. Her father and brothers were so many drab grouse compared to her, none of them looking particularly comfortable to be paying this call.
Michael was pleased. Cautiously pleased.
“Welcome to you all,” he said. “Squire, introductions are in order.”
The squire cleared his throat, harrumphed, then stood very tall. “Henrietta, may I make known to you Michael, Lord Angelford, who has taken possession of Inglemere since last you bided in Amblebank. His lordship paid a call on me yesterday, hence our neighborly reciprocity of his gesture. My lord, I make known to you my daughter, Henrietta, and her two brothers, Philip and Thaddeus Whitlow. You can thank the mighty powers that my grandchildren did not accompany us, else they’d be climbing your curtains and breaking yonder porcelain vase by now.”
Whitlow had introduced her with all appropriate decorum, even knowing Michael was not a stranger to Henrietta.
The strategy was brilliant, did Whitlow but know it.
“Miss Whitlow,” Michael said, taking the lady’s hand and bowing. “I am honored by your company.” He bowed in turn to Philip and Thad, who were younger versions of the squire. The tray soon arrived, and much to Michael’s surprise, the squire carried the conversation.
He inquired regarding crops and tenants, drainage—ever a fascinating subject to the English gentry—and game. Henrietta presided over the tea tray with perfect grace but added little to the conversation.
What did it mean that she’d come to call? Was her family treating her well, and how could Michael find five minutes alone to ask her if she’d forgiven him?
He’d watched every crumb of shortbread disappear down the gullets of the Whitlow menfolk and was about to embark on a discourse regarding the construction of a ha-ha bordering a hayfield—about which he knew not one damned thing—when Wright interrupted again.
“More callers, my lord, and I hesitate to bring bad tidings, but they’ve children with them. Noisy children.”
“Healthy lungs on a child are always a cause for rejoicing,” Squire Whitlow said. “Well, don’t just stand there,” he went on, waving a hand at Wright. “Get us another tea tray with plenty of biscuits and show the visitors in. You’re in the household of a baron, and company will be a constant plague.”
“Wright,” Michael said, rising. “Who are these callers?”
“Your sisters, my lord. All of them. With all of their children, and a husband or two, if I’m not mistaken. Cook will have an apoplexy.”
His sisters? All of them? And the children and the husbands?
The cautious joy blooming in Michael’s heart lurched upward to lodge in his throat. “Make them welcome, Wright, or I’ll sack you on Christmas Day. You will make my family welcome, no matter how much noise they bring, or how many vases they break.”
Wright bowed very low—though not quite low enough to hide a smile—and withdrew.
“Shall we be going?” Philip Whitlow asked, rising. “Your lordship’s apparently quite busy with visitors today, and we wouldn’t want to overstay our welcome.”
“My friends are always welcome here,” Michael said, and he was smiling too, because now—finally—Henrietta was looking straight at him and appearing very pleased with herself.
Or possibly, with him?
* * *
Michael did not look well-rested, but neither was he being the unapproachable lord. As Papa bleated on about ditches and boggy ground, Henrietta co
nsidered that Michael Brenner might be a shy man. She liked the idea and, as she watched Michael draw both Thad and Philip into the discussion, admitted that she liked Michael as well.
What’s more, Papa liked him.
“I’ll suggest we remove across the hall to the library,” Michael said, “lest the size of the company exceed the capacity of the parlor. My nephews can be rambunctious.”
“So can mine,” Henrietta said, offering Michael her hand. Her brothers looked surprised, but then, her brothers had been indulged by wives who’d let manners lapse amid the exigencies of domestic bliss.
Michael’s grasp was firm, but fleeting. “You’ll find the library a little lacking in warmth,” he said, aiming his comments at Henrietta. “But the room could be gracious with a little attention.”
His library was lovely, though his desk was a bit untidy, as if he’d tried and failed a number of times to write a difficult letter. Henrietta was wandering about, trying to casually work her way to the desk when a herd of small children galloped into the library.
“I get the ladder!” one boy yelled.
“First on the bannister!” another cried.
“I get the bannister,” a small girl called, elbowing one of the boys in the ribs.
“Reminds me of you lot,” Papa said, taking some book or other from Henrietta’s hands, while Michael went to the front door to greet his sisters. “That man is in love with you, Henrietta. Properly head over ears. I had to see it for myself, and he did not disappoint. If you show him the least favor, he’ll make you his baroness.”
Papa’s words were offered beneath the pounding of a dozen small feet up the spiral staircase in the corner of Michael’s library. His lordship rejoined the group in the library, bringing four laughing, chattering sisters with him and two much quieter men.
Pandemonium ensued, with children sliding down the spiral bannister, mamas and papas clucking and scolding, Philip and Thad putting a boy each on their shoulders to reach the higher shelves, and Papa—Papa?—presiding over the bowl of rum punch on the sideboard.
