As soon as they had got up from their seats, Oscar went in pursuit of the pretty woman whom he had had eye contact with.
“Oscar,” Henry quickly said and grabbed the doctor by the arm before the latter could disappear in the throng of people heading for the exits, “I think I will return to the guesthouse.”
Oscar looked at him puzzled.
“But the play is still going on for at least another two hours.”
Henry smiled apologetically as he cringed at the thought of having to spend just one more minute in the confinement of the theatre, noble and spectacular as it might have been. But he couldnʼt bear the sight anymore of the two actors who found themselves in such an unfortunate and despairing situation.
“I have got a terrible migraine,” he lied. “I guess, I just really need to be by myself for a little while.”
Oscar cast him an emphatic look.
“You already sound like my sister Priscilla… But alas, if you feel like leaving, I will not hold you back. I hope you do not mind me staying here and watching the play till the end.”
Oscar threw a secretive side glance over to the flirtatious woman who was leaning at the exit door, obviously waiting for him.
“Not at all,” Henry replied with a faint smile. “Do go and enjoy yourself.”
And with these words he left.
“You fool...” he muttered to himself when he arrived outside, still haunted by the tragic storyline which reminded him in so many ways about his own situation, still haunted by the beauty of Lucinda who had looked so much like Sarah.
He wasnʼt sad and bitter because he had let this chance of an evening in an expensive theatre pass by; no, he didnʼt care about this at all.
The reason that he called himself a fool was that he had truly believed he would ever be able to forget Sarah, which was the biggest lie he had ever told himself.
* * *
Dear Diary,
Night is gradually falling over Bournemouth. The air is getting cool and the wind makes the waves beat against the shore. The sound of the breakers are keeping me awake as I desperately try to find some sleep.
Our hotel is a big building similar in size to our mansion, but it is even more luxurious. The doorknobs are gilded. My bed is as big as if it was made for three people to sleep in it. The food is as delicious as if it was prepared for a king and queen. There are crystal chandeliers in every room, and the curtains are made of finest brocade.
Still, I would gladly relinquish this unnecessary abundance if I could trade it for nicer company.
Uncle Horatio and Damian went for a swim in the afternoon, with Roderick standing motionless on the beach like a statue, holding two towels and waiting for the men to come back out of the freezing water.
They are spending so much time with each other, my uncle and Damian... Every so often they put their heads together, chat and giggle like old friends from school, as if they were entirely on a common ground. It annoys me so much not to know what they are talking about as they never let me join their conversation. But then again it does not take much to guess that they are talking about me and my imminent marriage with Damian.
It seems to become more and more difficult to get used to the thought of being his wife. I first put it down to the fact that the marriage is obviously drawing closer. But then I realized that this is not the sole reason for the strange confusion that I suddenly find myself overcome with.
I know now that it has got something to do with Henry Abbott, my tutor.
I happened to meet him in the library last night. Well, I must correct myself as, in fact, this encounter can not be put down as purely accidental. If I am quite honest, I already guessed that it had to be him when I heard the music coming from downstairs, as nobody had ever really used the piano before he arrived a week ago. And I went down to meet him, because I felt the urge to do so—as if I was drawn by a strange magical force. I did not even care to dress properly; something which I feel highly ashamed of, now that I am looking back on it. But I was worried that if I took too long preparing for the encounter, he would stop in the meantime and go back to his room again.
He sat there, playing the piano, appearing entirely at ease and absorbed by the music. What a sight it was... I could have watched him for an eternity, just listening to this touching and unfamiliar tune he was playing. When he noticed me, I summoned all my courage to sit down next to him although I felt ridiculously nervous. Still, his presence made me feel warm and safe. My cheeks were glowing, and there was a tingly sensation on my skin and in my stomach, especially when he suddenly touched my hand.
There was this moment when none of us was speaking anymore. And God knows, I felt so uncomfortable then! Suddenly, I was afraid he would kiss me although I sensed a strong longing inside of me for him to do so. But I was truly worried that I would not be able to handle this situation! I was afraid I would do or say something silly which might make him laugh. But then, when he did not make any attempt to kiss me at all, I suddenly felt disappointed... Ultimately, I was glad when I had a reason to leave. It seemed to me that he was relieved as well.
The kiss on the cheek had not been planned. All I had intended was to show Mr. Abbott my gratitude for what he had done for me, for saving me, for lying for me—and I must admit, I also wanted to find out how it feels to kiss him. But now I fear that I have gone too far. I should have risked a second glance at him when I ran out of the room, just to check on his reaction. But as I didnʼt look back, I now have no idea if Mr. Abbott liked my approach, or if he was repelled by it. Damianʼs terribly early arrival this morning left no chance to figure out what my teacher thinks of me now. Oh God, I feel so miserable!
Dear diary, I strongly believe that I am falling in love with him; or at least, I think that it is love that I feel for him, as I have never felt this way for someone before.
I am wondering what Mr. Abbott is doing right now, if he misses me somehow, if he remembers my kiss at all—after all, he was a little drunk last night. Being with Oscar, he is surely too busy to think about me...
But then again, deep in my heart, I suppose it would be much better if he did not remember and if he forgot about me entirely. What am I thinking to lose myself in daydreams about him...? Even if he loved me, our future would be doomed, with Damian already having become such an important part of the family.
I suppose I have to come to terms with the harsh reality that life is not something that can be filled with silly dreams. My dearest mother already proved this. Despite her marriage, she too was in love with another man. And she never dared to follow her dream.
So why should I?
* * *
The next morning Henry woke with the exact headache which he had faked the previous night. He felt tired, worn-out and depressed.
After he had left the theatre, he had spent the time wandering aimlessly through the nightly streets of London, occasionally stopping at a tavern to have a pint. Every now and then, he had encountered a torch bearer, people who, for a penny or two, had taken over the task to guide passers-by through those parts of the city which the council had deemed not important enough to be equipped with gaslight lanterns. But as Henry had found these guides highly suspicious, sure that they would rob or even kill him if he enlisted their services, he had politely refused and then had quickly run for it. Having lived in London all his life, he knew the place by heart, even in the darkness. And so he had eventually ended up in front of Mrs. Potterʼs guesthouse again.
There he had fallen into bed, exhausted and slightly drunk. Still, his mind had never been clearer before.
He knew now that he truly loved Sarah. If there had been any doubts so far, there definitely was no doubt about it anymore. He had realized it the moment he had come out of the theatre, still under the influence of the performance of the Sarah look-a-like girl playing the dukeʼs desperate daughter, whose despair had almost broken his heart.
And the young man, that little blind and besotted fool, had reminded
him of himself.
You are losing yourself in illusions…
Now, he finally allowed himself to admit his feelings. There was no way around it, as these feelings simply were too strong and forced their way up to the surface.
He knew that it had been more than foolish of him to believe he would be able to suppress his love for Sarah, to get her out of his head where she had been all along. Now he was even sure that she had already sneaked her way into his heart on the very first evening when they both had sat at the dinner table and had exchanged glances. Back then, however, he had been too influenced by the bad stories he had heard about her. Therefore he had not been able to notice how his affection for her was gradually growing; every day a little more.
Off all the women he had fancied before, there had not been a single one whom he could have imagined sharing his life with. He couldnʼt explain what it was with Sarah that had made him change his mind so completely that he could suddenly envisage being with her until the day he would die. Apart from her beauty, he guessed that it was because of all these different aspects of hers; because she was the shy, timid girl on the one hand, and the wild, independent woman on the other. What a fascinating mixture it was! When she was shy and timid, she made him feel like she needed him. He could be a real man in her presence then. When she was wild and independent, though, it was just as attractive, as it gave him the feeling that she would not entirely rely on him and that she could even represent a source of strength for him during times when he himself might feel weak and in need of comfort.
Or maybe she simply had intoxicated him with her vanilla scent. Whatever was to happen in his life, he knew that he would forever associate the smell of vanilla with Sarah.
Feeling slightly obsessed, he was lying in his bed in the guesthouse, blankly staring at the ceiling, lost in his daydreams about what it would be like when Sarah would finally be his, and when he would kiss her and caress her skin with his fingers and explore her bare body with his hands...
He was so absorbed by his fantasies that he completely forgot that—judging by the current situation—she actually wasnʼt meant to be his girl at all. And when this cruel reality hit him, it filled him with the excessive desire for action.
If she really liked him, as Oscar had suggested, if there was the faintest chance that she could envisage to be with him instead of Damian, then he would need to elaborate a plan to save her from her misery.
He would need a plan to make her his girl.
He would make her his girl.
* * *
At nine oʼclock, Henry went downstairs for breakfast. Mrs. Potter had prepared black pudding and beans. For reasons unknown to him, Henry praised the food even though he found that he had hardly eaten anything worse. He guessed that the reason why he didnʼt like it was that he had become far too spoiled by Thelmaʼs culinary art. Happy about his flattery, Mrs. Potter asked him if he wanted a second helping, which he politely declined.
Later, just as Henry was about to get up from the table and go upstairs to his room, the front door opened and a very pale and exhausted-looking Oscar tumbled in. He was in a terrible state, suffering from the worst hangover Henry had ever seen. Still, he seemed to be in a good mood.
He let himself fall down on a chair at Henryʼs table, rubbing his eyes.
“Good friend, would you be so kind as to tell me what time it is...?” he moaned.
“Past ten,” Henry answered with a glance at his pocket watch.
Mrs. Potter arrived with a little towel and started to pointedly clean the table.
“Donʼt expect me to serve you food now,” she grumbled angrily. It was obvious to Henry that she wasnʼt very fond of men who spent all night out in town doing God knows what.
“Ah, donʼt bother...” Oscar groaned. He didnʼt look as if he could do with a hearty breakfast; rather with an icepack or a cigar.
He slowly raised his head and looked at Henry, bleary-eyed.
“I did not know, my dear friend, I really didnʼt...” he said, a rueful expression on his face.
“Did not know what?”
“The stage play. I did not know that its plot would be so terribly melodramatic. To be honest, I didnʼt like it. Even the costumes were bad.”
Henry tried to appear unperturbed.
“Did you manage to talk to that lady?” he asked unemotionally.
Oscar blushed a little.
“I did indeed. She was accompanied by some female friends. They were all quite nice. You should have been there.”
“I must say, I wasnʼt aware that you are so… adventurous,” Henry added with a smirk.
Oscar let out a sigh and ruffled his hair.
“Well, donʼt we all have a skeleton in the closet…”
The two men laughed.
“Shall I tell you how the play ended?” Oscar asked.
Henry quickly shook his head.
“Another time, Iʼve got some errands to make,” he said and got up. By no means did he want to hear about the ending as he could already guess that it wasnʼt a good one.
Oscar leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms in front of his chest and pensively looked at Henry.
“You really are all over her, right?”
Henry was staring sadly at some coffee stains and crumbs which Mrs. Potter had overlooked when she had sloppily wiped the table.
“You will see her tonight when she returns from Bournemouth, my dear friend,” Oscar said softly, a knowing smile on his lips. “There is nothing you can do right now anyway, is there?”
Henry nodded with resignation.
Oscar made an effort to get up and then tumbled towards the staircase leading up to their room. Henry guessed that Oscar wouldnʼt even undress and would probably just drop on his bed with his clothes on and fall asleep.
Of course, Oscar was right. Henry wanted to be back in Oxford the very moment the Partridges and Damian returned. Seeing them all would give him the feeling of being in control although he didnʼt have any real control.
But it helped a little.
* * *
While Oscar was peacefully snoring in bed, Henry spent the day strolling through Hyde Park, picking up Oscarʼs suit from the tailor and visiting his mother. The latter was highly surprised and delighted by his unexpected appearance.
Arriving at his motherʼs humble little flat in Spitalfields in Londonʼs East End where he had spent his childhood was like a culture shock for him after having spent a week in the mansion of the Partridges. The two rooms of the flat which she occupied were incredibly small and made him feel confined. The ceiling appeared much too low; he almost hit his head. The curtains and walls were stained by the soot of gaslight, and when Henry looked out of the window, the smog emerging from the chimney pots of the nearby textile factories hung in the air like a never drifting thundercloud. It was the reason for the little apartment to be permanently shrouded in darkness. Henryʼs mother could not afford festive lighting of at least ten gaslights in one room just like the Partridges. In the little chamber where they were sitting now and which served as a kitchen and living room at the same time, the only means of lighting which illuminated the place was an oil lamp.
Describing to his mother the wealth that he had seen was similar as to explaining it to the blind. She had never been eager to get rich. In fact, she had always been a humble person, without ever moaning. She had always been content with whatever life was offering her, even if it was only a little. She listened politely and attentively when Henry told her about Lady Partridgeʼs extensive jewelry and china collection, but didnʼt seem to be really interested in it. She was far too busy making him feel comfortable and at home. She set up some water on the stove for two cups of coffee, and laboriously rummaged in her chest of drawers in search of some old biscuits. Eventually she found them. They were buried underneath her knitting stuff, a little casket of buttons which she had collected, and a brooch that Henryʼs father had once given her for her fortieth birthday. It had not been a
particularly expensive kind of jewelry, but she had still cherished it as if it was worth more than the crown jewels.
She shuffled over to where Henry was sitting, her frayed dress, which she had already mended a dozen times, dragging over the cold stone floor. There was a terrible draught coming from the window, as it was broken. Henryʼs mother told him that someone had thrown a brick stone through it, and the landlord did not care about it. As she couldnʼt afford to buy a new window herself, she had not found any alternative than stuffing old rags into the hole in the glass pane. Henry promised her that as soon as he would receive his second weekʼs salary, he would buy her a new window. She lovingly caressed his cheek, a painful expression on her face. Henry knew that she bemoaned the fact that he spent all his hard-earned money on her, just like his brother, who kept sending her payments all the way from America.
Henry & Sarah Page 12
