A Prince for Aunt Hetty

by Kimberly Truesdale

  Their eyes met. “I think you deserve a bit of vanity.” Rupert took her hand in his. “And you should know that what I see is a beautiful, charming woman.” He brought her hand to his lips and gently kissed her palm. The smile was gone now as she stared at him. The feelings from yesterday returned. He wanted to kiss her, to press his lips to hers and feel her breath. He wanted to pull her to him. But they were in the hall, so he only stared and swallowed heavily as he tried to clear his head and wait for his heart beat to slow down a bit.

  He shouldn't linger much longer, but he wanted somehow to show her what he was feeling. So he raised her hand to his lips again and kissed the inside of her wrist. The skin was warm and soft. He stayed there moment. She did not pull away from him or offer any resistance. But finally he knew it would be entirely improper to remain any longer. So he gently released her hand and turned to go. He opened the door to let himself out.

  On the step outside the door he turned and gave her a half-dazed smile. “Goodnight, Hetty.”

  “Goodnight, Rupert.” She smiled back and shut the door.

  Chapter Ten

  HETTY LAID IN bed with the tingle still running up her arm. It clutched right at her heart each time it did, causing it to squeeze in a delicious and exciting way. She was unsure if she'd ever felt anything like it before.

  “Oh, you are a silly thing, Harriet Masters,” she mumbled and turned over on her side, curling up under the blanket so she could stare at the fire. She was glad of the shadows. Something about the glow of the fire at midnight when the house was quiet made her feel alone. Some nights it was a comforting thing, some nights it was a thrill of being awake when no one else was, and other nights it brought on a loneliness. Tonight it was a little bit of all three. She sighed heavily and turned over on her back. She spread out her limbs and felt around for the cold places. They grew warm with her body heat while she thought about the evening.

  Mr. Rupert Henderson. At first she had been hesitant to see him today. After yesterday's confusing events, she didn't know how he would act or how she should act around him. There was the painting... and then the words he had spoken... He had called her beautiful. And he had meant it! Men of society were supposed to want young women, women fresh from the country trying to make an advantageous match. Women who could give them heirs to property and fortune. Men were not supposed to want women her age.

  But then tonight as he left... a thrill raced through her again and she breathed in deeply, trying to steady her racing pulse. A woman of fifty years should not feel like this. Again she shifted in the bed. But what harm could it do, really? She asked herself. It wasn't like she was going to fall in love and get married. She was long past that.

  But to be desired? That was perhaps something she could allow herself for a time.

  Hetty'd had admirers in her youth. And a few kisses. But nothing that she remembered had ever felt like what had passed between them tonight. It was so... intimate. Even for a simple kiss on her hand and wrist. She stretched out the fingers of her hands, as if she could still feel his lips there.

  Thinking of hands drew her mind back to watching Rupert work. Though many of her friends in London had patronized budding artists over the years, Hetty found that she knew little of the process. And so she had been fascinated to watch Rupert work. At first he merely looked at the children, drawing outlines here and there and making some notes. But then he began earnestly sketching each of their faces and bodies, filling in the outline more and more. Occasionally he would stop and look again, all the time lost in his own vision. His strong hands moved with determined grace over the paper. He even pouted a bit as he worked.

  I wonder if he knows that he runs his hand along his jaw as he thinks. She pictured it now. The smooth movement of his sturdy hands rubbing along his jawline as he concentrated on the next line he wanted to make or as he looked carefully at his subject. What would it feel like to run her hand along that jaw, studded with stubble and rough to the touch? Hetty's skin crawled with awareness.

  “This is ridiculous,” Hetty mumbled again to herself. She knew so little about him. He knew so little about her. There was nothing that could or should happen between them. She was fifty and he was probably about the same. And she was going back to London soon. Besides, Hetty tried to convince herself, he only sees me as an object to paint.

  There was the nagging thought of those kisses and the words he had spoken to her. But she pushed it away willfully. A handsome man in a close environment might wreak havoc on a woman if she let him. So she must not let him.

  All of these thoughts tumbled around in her mind as Hetty forced herself to close her eyes. She hadn't been asleep long when she felt a gentle tug and heard her name whispered.

  “Hetty? Hetty?”

  “Hmm?” Hetty murmured sleepily.

  “Hetty? Wake up, please.”

  “Agatha? What's wrong?” Hetty sat up in her bed. She knew something must be dreadfully out of order if her sister had woken her in the middle of the night. If it was it still the middle of the night?

  “Can you come with me?”

  Hetty was already out of bed, now wide awake. “Agatha, what on earth is wrong? What's happened? Is it the children?”

  Agatha answered as they hurried into the hallway. “It's Stephen. He just woke up with a stomach ache. I tried to get him back to sleep, but he started vomiting. I've never seen him like this. I've never seen any of the children like this.”

  “Has Jonathan sent for the doctor?”

  “He's going right now.”

  “Good.” They'd reached the door to Agatha's room.

  “He's in here. I didn't want to disturb the other children.”

  “Good idea.” If the other children were aware, they would be underfoot and Agatha would have to comfort them rather than focusing on her sick child. They entered the room and Hetty saw Stephen on the bed. He looked pale and his eyes were closed.

  “Stevie?” Agatha sat on the bed next to him.

  “Mama?” his voice was weak.

  “How are you feeling, little man?” Her voice was gentle.

  “My tummy hurts, mama.”

  “I know, my love. Your papa has gone to get the doctor. He will come soon and fix you right up.”

  “Mama, I'm thirsty,” Stephen said. Agatha looked around for water but found none.

  “I'll go to the kitchen for a glass,” Hetty said, already moving out the door. On the way, she stopped by her room to grab her robe. What could be wrong with the boy? She prayed it was nothing serious. Agatha and Jonathan had been lucky with their family. All of their children had lived and suffered no serious illness so far. Hetty hoped that didn't mean that luck was against them this time.

  It did not take her long to find and fill a pitcher and bring it back to the room. Stephen appeared to be sweating and Hetty now noticed that his throat was red with a kind of rash. She did not mention this to Agatha. There was nothing they could do until the doctor arrived anyway.

  Hetty watched as her sister calmly and carefully wiped Stephen's brow and held his little body up to have a drink. She watched as Agatha patiently cleaned up each time Stephen vomited all of the water back out. She watched and she helped as she could.

  The time ticked away and still Jonathan did not return with the doctor. Mrs. Lowell, Mr. Sylvester, and the rest of the servants were now awake and hovering around, scrambling to help each time Agatha made a request. Stephen did not appear to worsen, but he also did not get better. The anxiety in the room was palpable.

  Finally, finally they heard approaching hooves and the opening of the front door. Heavy boots hurried up the stairs and Jonathan burst into the room followed closely by the doctor from the village. Both men were half-dressed and pale from the cold.

  The doctor shrugged out of his coat and strode toward the boy. Agatha reluctantly moved out of the way. The doctor asked her short questions about the duration of the illness, what the boy had eaten, what he'd been doing. And all the w
hile the doctor felt over the boy's body, searching for spots that were tender or seemed to cause Stephen pain. He took the boy's shirt off and observed that his whole chest was a ruddy color.

  For all of the hurry to get there, Hetty was impressed with how patient and slow the doctor was in his examination. He seemed to know what he was doing and would perhaps be able to tell them what was wrong. Finally, he rose and approached Agatha and Jonathan. Hetty stepped closer to hear.

  “What is it?” Jonathan asked. Hetty could hear the anxiety in his voice.

  “Do the other children have any symptoms?” The doctor asked.

  “None that I know of. They are still sleeping,” Agatha replied.

  “Good. Then I think it is just something that he ate. If the other children are fine, then we can narrow it down. Do you happen to know what he had for his supper tonight?”

  “I... I don't know...” Agatha stammered.

  Hetty stepped in. “Mrs. Lowell, our cook, fed the children tonight. Shall I fetch her?”

  “That would be good,” the doctor agreed.

  Mrs. Lowell was waiting in the hallway, clutching a handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes. Hetty asked her to come in. The woman listed everything the children had eaten for their supper.

  “Oh, doctor, do you think it was something I made?” She looked horrified.

  “I can't be sure, madam. But please don't blame yourself. None of the other children are ill, so it's possibly something else. Even if he had overexerted himself recently, then he might have been more susceptible to whatever it is. There's really no way to tell.” The doctor's words were practical, but showed little understanding of the mind of a person who believes herself responsible for the illness of a child.

  “But will he survive?” Agatha was in agony.

  “Oh yes, as long as we can keep giving him water, I think he should be fine.”

  Agatha sagged into Jonathan. The two clung to each other in relief. Hetty herself felt a little weak with relief and fatigue.

  By the time the doctor had settled the boy comfortably and given them instructions on what to do, the sun had risen and with it came the children. Hetty took on the task of explaining to them what had happened overnight. They were understandably upset. Hetty took them in to see their brother, but quickly escorted them out when the girls began to wail. She spent an hour assuring them that their brother was not dead and that the best thing they could do for him would be to behave themselves today so that mama and papa could spend all their energy on Stephen.

  The children quieted, but continued to sniffle. They frequently asked to see their brother just to make sure he was all right. Hetty, Agatha, and Jonathan all took turns caring for the boy and minding the other children. Mrs. Lowell, still feeling guilty about Stephen, lavished treats on anyone who would let her. And everyone waited to see what would happen.

  During one of her shifts by Stephen's side, Hetty's mind naturally drifted towards the ideas of life and death. In the presence of a sick child, all her silly worries and thoughts from before faded. It was all in perspective: she had some feelings for Rupert and she need not feel ashamed of them. She was a grown woman and allowed to think anything she wanted. And if she someday wanted to act on those feelings, she might do that too. After all, life was short and worth filling with all the love one could find.

  Hetty felt a twinge of guilt herself over Stephen's illness. The doctor had intimated that the child's illness might have been brought on by overexertion. It had been a long day yesterday and perhaps she had allowed the children to play too hard and too long in the cold and snow. She should have been more careful. Now that she thought about it, in fact, she had noticed Stephen drooping a bit as the children sat for their portrait this afternoon.

  I should have seen it. The boy was so anxious to be just like his older siblings and not to be left out of anything that they did that Hetty forgot he was so young. When she sat next to his little body shivering in the bed, she saw it, though. Poor little one. Hetty smoothed his hair over his brow.

  The doctor returned later in the day, by which time Stephen had not vomited for nearly two hours. It was an excellent sign of the boy's progress. He asked Jonathan to send for him if the boy started vomiting again or if anything else changed. But as long as he could keep the water down, the doctor advised, the boy would do just fine. He should recover fully and be back on his feet in a matter of days.

  When he pronounced this, there was an audible sigh from everyone in the room. And then a renewed energy to care for the child. Mrs. Lowell went on a baking spree in case the little boy became hungry. And Hetty gave up blaming herself. The boy would survive. She must rejoice in that.

  That night Hetty helped put the children to bed, even more of a chore once they started voicing their worries for their brother.

  “Will he be there when I wake up?” Vincent asked.

  “Of course!” Hetty responded. “He's in mama and papa's room tonight, but you can see him first thing in the morning.”

  This didn't seem to comfort them much. So Hetty had all the children say a special prayer and tell one thing they loved about their brother. That seemed to comfort and calm them enough to go to sleep.

  Once their lights were out and she was sure they would stay in their beds, Hetty took a moment for herself. She was bone tired and decided on a walk outside in the cold night air to clear her head. Mr. Sylvester heard her open the front door.

  “Is everything all right, madam?” He looked as tired as she felt.

  “Fine, Mr. Sylvester. I just need to step outside for some air. I will only be a few minutes.”

  “Very good.” He nodded at her and let her go.

  Hetty stepped outside and pulled the door closed. She took a few steps away from the house and toward the dark night in front of her. Out here it was quiet and peaceful. One might forget that inside was a family in turmoil. She took a deep breath and felt the sting of cold in her nose.

  Hetty hugged her coat to her body and looked up at the night sky. The moon was just rising over the horizon, its soft light beginning to glint off the snow that still stood the ground. The crisp chill made her feel alive and attentive, even while the snow muffled the usual night sounds. She could almost fancy herself alone here for a precious, quiet moment. Hetty closed her eyes again.

  Then something snapped in the woods beyond the house.

  Her eyes flew open, scanning the treeline. She squinted at the place where she'd heard the sound and listened as carefully as she could. There. Now she could hear the crunch of feet on the snow. Someone was coming.

  “Who's there?” she called out, her pulse beating loudly in her ears. She was poised to flee or scream if needed.

  “Your neighbor,” came a male voice.

  “Rupert?”

  “Yes.” He stepped to where she was and stopped. The light from the moon just let her make out his shape, but not much more. “How's Stephen?” he asked.

  “Recovering.”

  “Thank God. The poor boy.”

  “Yes.”

  “I was in the village earlier and heard about it. I would have come sooner, but...”

  “You did not need to come at all,” Hetty said.

  “Oh.” He sounded disappointed.

  Hetty rushed to mitigate her words. “I only mean that it is very kind of you to come and see how my nephew is doing. Only that you shouldn't have felt any obligation to do so.”

  “I didn't. I wanted to come.”

  “Oh. Thank you, then.” Hetty grew suddenly shy. Now that Stephen seemed to be out of distress, all the feelings that Rupert had sparked last night lit up again. It left her speechless.

  “I apologize for coming so late.”

  “You see we are still restless,” Hetty replied.

  “Yes, I see that.”

  Hetty shivered in the cold. Rupert apparently noticed the motion and stepped closer to her. She shivered again, this time not because of the weather.

  “You didn'
t happen to lose a white glove the other day, did you?”

  Hetty peered at him. What a strange question. “A glove?” Umm... I may have.”

  He pulled something out of his coat pocket and held it up. “I found this in my coat pocket as I came over. I picked it up in the woods that day we played Blind Man's Buff. I had forgotten about finding this in the woods.”

  “That looks like it could be mine.”

  Rupert still held it up between them. “I guess I should return it. It's not like the princess willingly granted me her favor.” There was teasing in his voice that put her at ease.

  He stepped even closer, leaving only a small distance between them. Rupert spoke in a whisper. The sound of his voice tickled up her neck. “Unless the princess will willingly grant it to me?”

  Hetty's breathing quickened as she tried to make out his face in the shadows. She felt a deep tension ache through her body. “You may keep my glove, sir.” She had meant the words to come out sounding flirtatious and somewhat flippant, but she only managed a hoarse whisper.

  Neither of them moved. A hundred thoughts ran through her head in that moment. What am I doing? Am I being pathetic and desperate? I don't even know this man! Well, I don't know him beyond his good manners, ready laugh, attractive face, considerable talent... But why me? Do I like him? Do I want to know him more? Does he want to know me more? And what happens when I go back to London? I can't stay here forever. Would I even want to? Would I consider staying here?

  Round and round the questions and doubts flew as she stood there. She felt him lean even closer.

  Finally he spoke. “Hetty, I think I --”

  “Hetty?” The front door opened and spilled light out to where they were standing. They sprang apart like guilty adolescents. Agatha stuck her head out the door. “Hetty?”

  “Yes, Agatha?” Hetty tried not to sound annoyed.

  “Is someone out there with you?”

  “Just your neighbor,” Rupert spoke. His voice sounded completely normal. “I came to see how the little one was doing. Hetty just happened to be outside taking some air.”