by Jane Lark
The cart pulled away first and passed the carriage, then the carriage moved forward, following it. Henry’s awareness was outside in the rain, on the cart with William.
When he could no longer see it, he tipped his head back and shut his eyes.
He wished to wake up in a brothel in Brighton and for this all to have been nothing more than a liquor induced nightmare.
Emotional pain welled up inside him, overwhelming pain. The hours he’d spent in agony from his shoulder had been nothing. He was drowning in pain. His hand lifted and ran across his face.
He wished his brother alive.
He needed Susan… He wanted her with him. That too was impossible.
Chapter Twenty
Susan looked out of her bedroom window when carriage wheels and horses’ hooves stirred the gravel below it. Her father’s carriage. The book she had been trying to read slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor as she stood up hurriedly. She ran from the room, catching hold of the door frame as she passed and spinning about it. She gripped the skirt of her dress and petticoats and lifted the hems up to her knees so she might indecorously run along the hall. She longed to hold her mother.
When she reached the stairs she held the bannister and continued hurrying, the wood slipping through her fingers. Her mother and Alethea walked through the front door into the hall as Susan reached it.
“Susan!” Alethea rushed towards Susan, as Susan ran from the bottom step. They embraced firmly. It was wonderful to have Alethea back.
“I have missed you,” Alethea said.
“I have missed you too.” Terribly. But Susan longed to hold her mother most. She turned to her.
Her mother’s arms wrapped about her and squeezed her tightly, expressing the concern she’d spoken of before Susan had left town. Susan held her mother tightly too and breathed in the scent of her perfume.
“Are you well, dear?” Her mother stepped back as her palms pressed either side of Susan’s face, knocking her spectacles askew in the urgency of the movement. “You look as though you have not slept.”
“I have been worried for Uncle Robert and Aunt Jane.” And Henry and the others. “How are they? Have you seen them?”
“Your father called on them the first day that we heard—”
“And they were as you would expect,” her father continued. “Distraught. Robert was quiet and subdued and Jane in tears. None of the children came to the drawing room, but I believe they were all there. Uncle Robert had brought the boys back from school, and Percy had come up from Oxford.”
“They should all be here at Farnborough now,” her mother added.
“I have not heard of their return.”
“They would have kept it quiet,” her father said. “They are in mourning, they will not wish for visitors.”
Susan looked at Alethea, she swallowed sharply before speaking the words which had run through her. “How is Henry?”
“We have not seen him, he stayed at the school and was to bring William’s body back to Farnborough.”
“He should be there by now too,” her father stated.
Susan looked from one to the other. She knew what she wished to do, she wished to go to Farnborough, she could do nothing to comfort and help them from here.
“Your mother and I plan to call on Robert and Jane this afternoon. I shall write now to check that we will be welcome. Shall I ask if they are happy for you to join us?”
“Yes, please.” Susan had to do something other than sit idly with hours to think and let the emotions of empathy overwhelm her. She needed to help them actively, in some regard.
“Yes, I wish to see Henry,” Alethea said.
Oh. Alethea’s words sliced through Susan. This was why she must leave her family; she could not live here when he would be spoken of as though he belonged to other people.
She did not want Alethea to speak to him, she wanted a private moment to hold him and ask how he was.
Susan’s mother looked at Dodds. “Will you have tea brought to the drawing room?”
He caught Susan’s eye and smiled, then bowed. He’d guessed Susan’s return had been due to some upset in town, then. He’d probably worried over her. Certainly his expression implied his approval of her parents’ return.
“Susan.”
She turned to her father and he caught hold of her hand.
“Stay with me a moment I wish to speak with you.”
She glanced at her mother, who smiled then turned Alethea to guide her towards the drawing room.
“Come along.”
Susan was led by her hand clasped in her father’s, to the library. Once there, he let her go. “Do you mind if I write to Robert first? It will only take a moment.” When she nodded, he turned away from her and sat down at the desk, then took out a sheet of paper from a drawer, before reaching for a quill. He dipped the quill in ink and wrote only about four lines, then blotted his writing, folded the paper and sealed the letter. The scent of the melted wax hovered in the air as he stood, holding the letter in his hand.
Susan waited by one of the windows, her fingers clasped together at her waist.
Her father smiled at her when he passed her on the way to the door. He leant out into the hall calling, “Dodds! Have a groom deliver this to Farnborough immediately please, and ask him to await a response! Thank you.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
Her father shut the door, then turned back, and frowned as his lips twisted with a look of concern, making his waxed moustache slant at an odd angle. “Susan,” he said on a sigh when he reached her and then he took hold of her hands, lifting them away from her waist. “What happened in town?”
This again. She was in no mood to manage his concerns. “Nothing for you to be worried over, I promise.” Tears gathered in her eyes. She swallowed, trying to hold them back, but she was sure her eyes must be sparkling behind her spectacles; she was standing by the window in the sunlight.
“You admit there was something then?”
The news of William’s death was too great a sorrow to allow her father any concern over her. “But it does not matter. I was not harmed in anyway, Papa.”
“You promise.”
“Yes.”
“So I may focus my attention on Robert and Jane and need not fear for you?”
“Yes.”
“I have been laying awake worrying over you, Susan.”
“You need not have been.”
He leant forward and kissed her cheek, his moustache tickling her as it had done since she’d been a child.
“I hated leaving you,” he said, quietly
“I have been well enough, and happy on my own.” She’d spent hours crying. She’d made such a fuss over a broken heart, which seemed so pathetic now.
“And so this nonsense you wrote to me about, about seeking some employment is it in the past then?”
Oh, no. She could not turn back on that. “No, Papa, I still wish for that. Alethea will marry, and what then? I am not the marrying sort. Being in London taught me that—”
“Susan. No one will see you destitute even if you do not marry. I will provide for you, despite the entail, and Alethea will not wish to lose the companionship of her sister.”
She would if she knew the truth.
“I know you will provide for me, but I would rather do something more worthwhile than spend my life as Alethea’s companion.”
“Every breath you take is worthy. You are a much loved daughter and sister, not simply a companion. You know we believed we were unable to have children, and then there was the miracle of Alethea, and we had no expectation that the Lord would be so kind as to bless us again, and then came you…”
Tears gathered in Susan’s eyes. It had been the wrong time to speak of worth. Her mother and father had probably spent hours imagining themselves in Uncle Robert’s and Aunt Jane’s place. Susan blinked away the tears. She must stop crying for herself.
Her father drew her into a firm hug. “Enoug
h of that nonsense. I will not allow you to leave us.”
~
When Susan, her parents and Alethea walked into the drawing room at Farnborough, after an introduction from Davis, they were greeted by a scene which Susan had never imagined she would see.
Henry’s family were dressed in black, and for a family who always smiled, no one in the room smiled at them as they entered. Uncle Robert did not even stand up. He had been staring out of the window, and merely turned his head to look at them. He looked dazed.
The only thing that appeared normal in the room was the presence of Uncle Robert’s dogs, three of which sat about Uncle Robert’s chair, but the fourth—of course Samson was beside Henry.
His tail thumped on the rug as Henry stood, then Samson stood too. “Uncle Casper.” Henry walked across the room to greet Susan’s father, Samson following. He held out his hand so her father might shake it. When her father accepted Henry’s hand he also pulled Henry forward and wrapped his free arm about Henry’s shoulders, giving him a brief one armed masculine embrace.
When Henry pulled away he gave her father a stiff, closed lip smile. He had not appreciated the embrace.
Samson came to Susan to be petted.
“Samsun, away, lay down,” Henry ordered. Then he looked at her mother. “Aunt Julie.” She immediately lost all composure and cried.
Susan’s heart beat out the pounding rhythm of a gallop.
Henry embraced her mother, offering comfort, not receiving it. He looked sallow, a little thinner, and so very serious—so unlike Henry.
Susan’s father walked over to Uncle Robert, who finally stood, but he rose slowly as though he lacked energy. He’d probably not slept for days.
“Casper.” Uncle Robert said, but he avoided the embrace her father offered pulling back as her father’s arm lifted. The movement, and his expression, was a wince; it implied the thought of comfort was too painful.
“Julie.” Aunt Jane stood. Tears shone in her eyes and ran on to her cheeks as Susan’s mother turned to her. The two women did embrace and let their grief show with no restraint.
“Henry…” Alethea stepped forward. Her arms lifted and wrapped about his neck, offering comfort, but Henry’s body remained stiff and the muscles in his face tight and resolute as his arms loosely held Alethea in return. “I am so sorry.” Susan heard Alethea whisper before she let him go.
Henry looked at Susan.
Alethea turned to Sarah and Christine, who were dabbing handkerchiefs to their eyes. She held them both and cried.
Henry stepped towards Susan. His eyes saying so much, all the emotion in his letter hovered there, and she could see the depth of the grief running through him. He needed her to hold him but she could not.
“I am sorry.” Her hands clasped behind her back. She would cry if she so much as touched him, and her tears would not all be for William.
“I wish you had not gone,” he said in a low voice.
No one was watching them, no one would notice them talking more privately. “I had to.”
“I know. But I may still wish it were otherwise.”
She bit her lip. She could not discuss it without becoming emotional, because now he was here in front of her again the pull towards him was overwhelming—magnetic and empathetic; it called her a fool for running away. Yet it had become insignificant in the shadow of William’s passing. “Where are your brothers?”
He flinched in the way his father had done. The question had lanced him. There was one less of his brothers. The tears Susan fought stung the back of her eyes.
“Percy took Stephen and Gerard out riding. They are not coping well. Boys do not weep out their grief as women do.” The answer was spoken in a stiff pitch. He had not wept then either.
Perhaps males ought to cry, Henry and his father appeared to be in agony.
“I am sorry, Henry, it was a careless thing to say.”
“What, to mention my brothers? It was not careless. You cannot be careful of every word you speak and I do not want people to tiptoe about us trying to not mention William.” His answer was sharp, but then he said more gently. “Nothing you could do or say, Susan, would be without care. If anything your fault is that you care too much about what others think. I know you asked out of concern, and the issue is that we are all torn in two and nothing will bring William back, yet everything reminds us of him.”
She longed to reach out and hold him as Alethea had. Her hands unclasped and fell at her side.
He reached out and held one. It was not a formal gesture it was as if he’d needed to hold her too but had not known how.
She held his hand in return, her thumb pressing against the back his. I love you. The words whispered through her head as she looked into the unbearable level of sadness in his brown eyes.
“Susan…”
She let his hand go and turned to face his sister. “Sarah. I am so sorry.”
Sarah’s distress was not disguised with the stiff countenance Henry and his father displayed. Sarah’s grief shone in her eyes and trembled in her lips. Susan held her as pain pressed into her heart too. A couple of weeks ago Sarah had been enjoying her first season clothed in bright colours.
Sarah pulled away and withdrew her handkerchief from her sleeve to dab at her eyes.
Susan wiped the tears from her cheeks with the cuff of her sleeve.
“I am sorry,” Susan said. “I should not be making you weep but offering you comfort.”
“I have been crying for days,” Sarah answered, “I think every day my tears will run dry but still they fall. It was just so fast you see. I cannot accept that he will not walk into the room with the others when they come in. I expect to see him every day now we are all home again and he is never here.”
Susan looked at her aunt. Alethea stood with her. She was trying to be stoic and smiling slightly as Alethea talked but she had dark shadows beneath her eyes.
“I will ring for tea, Mama,” Henry said behind Susan, “You sit.” It was a thoughtful thing for him to do, and very un-like Henry.
Susan glanced at him. When he walked past her he gave her a shallow closed lipped smile.
Her awareness of him as he walked away was not like the normal all-consuming pull—instead it became a sharp jerk on her heartstrings when he left the room. He’d looked so solemn. Henry had never been solemn.
Alethea sat on an empty sofa. Susan remained on her feet uncertain where to go.
When Henry came back into the room Aunt Jane said, “Sit down with Alethea, darling.”
He glanced at Susan before consenting to the suggestion.
He wished to sit with her, she knew it. He sought her comfort as much her heart longed to give it. But as things were both their families believed his arrangement with Alethea still stood. He could not favour Susan over Alethea.
He is only fulfilling his duty. The sharp words struck through Susan in denial of the flash of jealousy that sparked from a flint. But what point was there in jealousy, they had agreed that nothing might progress.
She turned away and sat near Sarah and Christine, trying to stop herself from straining to listen to Henry and Alethea.
She talked with them of William, of their fondest memories and the things they would miss most about their beloved brother. Henry’s voice was low as he spoke with Alethea and she could not hear a word. She heard some of Alethea’s words, though, she was speaking of things that had happened in town. Susan doubted Henry cared today.
When the tea arrived Susan stood and offered to pour it, to save Aunt Jane, Sarah or Christine from the task. Susan’s mother smiled acknowledging her kindness. Alethea had not even turned her head from her conversation with Henry. Henry glanced over and gave Susan a smile that said, thank you.
She poured while Sarah and Christine circulated with the cups. She, Alethea, and their mother and father, were dots of pale colour in a room of blackness. And the blackness hung in the air too, every conversation was so much quieter. Only Alethea’s voice ca
rried with lilting emphasis. Henry’s father conversed with hers rarely responding and using a succinct, measured, brief tone, while Aunt Jane punctuated the conversation with Susan’s mother with dabs of her handkerchief against her eyes. Henry’s family were still in shock, as Sarah had said it had happened so fast they had not had time to adjust, they had not even really begun mourning.
But even Susan could not believe that at any moment William might not walk through the door with Henry’s other brothers. She could not imagine him gone.
After the tea had been drunk and the cups gathered up Susan continued her quiet conversation with Sarah and Christine. The drawing room door opened. Everyone looked.
“We are back,” Percy said walking into the room.
Gerard and Stephen walked in behind their older brother.
The three of them were flushed from a hard ride, and their clothes a little dishevelled, but the sense of a crushed spirit hung about them.
Susan stood, compassion drawing her to her feet. Of course Stephen and Gerard must have been closest to William. She did not know the younger boys well, there had been too great a gap in their ages, they had not played together as she had with Henry and Percy, and yet still her heart went out to them. But once she was on her feet she did not know what to say or do; she could see they would not welcome her embracing them.
“Thank you, Susan, it would be very kind of you to ring for a fresh pot of tea,” Henry said.
She looked at him. He knew that was not why she had stood; he was saving her from the awkwardness which had gripped her.
He rose and walked across the room. “And I presume you would welcome shortbread or whatever treat cook can send us up. How was your ride?” His hand settled on Gerard’s shoulder.
“Good.” Gerard answered as he turned and hugged Henry for a moment.
She had never seen Henry hold his younger brothers. She turned away and walked across the room to call for a maid, heat flushing her cheeks, as though she had just glimpsed something private.
“Do not worry, Susan,” Stephen touched her forearm, stopping her. “I will walk down to the kitchens and ask, then I may choose whatever cook has on offer.” He smiled at her. It was a natural smile.
