by Kira Stewart
“We shall see. Now, I do not want you young ladies fighting over the young man, especially under the kissing boughs. We do not want to frighten our young friend away back to Bath, now do we? Now look, here is my sensible daughter. Henry, please tell me you are not as silly as your sisters about young Tom?”
“Of course not, papa.”
Kissing her father good morning, she could feel her cheeks redden.
Kitty, who had been quiet until now, suddenly burst out laughing. She was not quite as beautiful as her elder sister, but still had her mother’s dark colouring.
“Oh papa. Henry is worst by far. She has written a story for young Thomas, where she is the heroine and he the hero.”
The girls laughed at their younger sister, as she started to feel her eyes brim with tears.
Her sister had read the story!
Feeling her temper rise, Henrietta rushed around the table to where Kitty sat, and gave a hard yank at her hair.
“Ow! That hurt.”
In turn, Kitty pinched Henry on the arm.
“How dare you read my story? Papa, Kitty has read my story, the present for Tom. She has no right to do that.”
Henrietta stamped her foot and the tears began to fall.
“Now girls, do behave! Henrietta, please do take your seat at the table and have some breakfast. What on earth has happened to your hair?”
Mrs. Maldon despaired at her youngest daughter, catching sight of her unruly hair as she entered the dining room, having just supervised the breakfast. She was quickly followed into the room by their young maid, Annie.
Cocoa, pound cake, bread rolls, and bread and butter, were placed on the table.
Biting her lip, she sat at the table. All were silent, whilst their father said grace.
Henrietta closed her eyes. She hated her sisters. Tom was sure to find them both silly. Besides, Kitty must have only read the rough draft of the story that had been under her pillow. The real present was locked away in her chest. With that thought, she happily ate her breakfast.
3.
It was after four in the afternoon, when their father’s carriage finally pulled to a halt on the small gravel drive in front of the rectory. The party had been expected since three, and the waiting had been intense, with all members of the family taking their turns to peep through the heavy curtains in the drawing room.
Henry had suffered the most. The hour had dragged its heels. The rolled manuscript of her story had remained clutched firmly in her hands, and she had tied and retied the blue ribbon until it had started to fray.
On hearing the carriage finally arrive, her heart skipped a beat.
There was a fuss and a flurry in the hallway, as Mr. and Mrs. Maldon greeted the young man and his mother. George was next, shaking hands with his old friend, and the two older girls were not far behind.
The young man looked overwhelmed by the reception of his old friends, and for a moment or two, he felt uneasy with the display of emotion. He had only been away for four months, but already it felt like years. He had quite forgotten how small the village was. Now that the world had been opened up to him, the rectory suddenly seemed rather parochial. The young man felt guilty for feeling such things, but felt them all the same.
Henrietta suddenly felt shy. It was rather silly, but she had been thinking so long about her old friend as one of the hero’s from her stories, that he was no longer the ordinary Tom Langton of old. He now had an air of mystery and romance about him.
Young Henry was not the only one to think this. The young man had changed considerably during the short time he had been away, and it was not just the fine new clothes that he was wearing. The boy was no longer a boy, but now stood before them as a young man. He seemed taller than when he left, his posture straight, more self-assured. He seemed a little uneasy at first with the great show of emotion, especially from Mrs. Maldon, and the more exuberant welcome from her husband. He had much preferred it when he had entered the household unnoticed as one of the family, not a prize cow as he now seemed, to be congratulated and stared at.
Dressed in new breeches, jacket, and cravat, he looked quite unrecognisable and quite the dandy. Jane obviously approved, and openly flirted with the young man, hoping to catch his attention—something she had never attempted over the five or six years she had known him.
“Good afternoon, Thomas,” she simpered. He had always been plain Tom before.
“Be careful, Tom, you are standing under the kissing bough. Make sure my daughters do not take advantage of you!”
The young man blushed; he was not used to his altered status within the family. Everything before, had been free and easy between them. His new status was now becoming an awkward barrier between them, and he felt a little annoyed that the girl should suddenly make a play for him. Jane was becoming quite the beauty, but was still a shallow and silly girl.
Sensing his unease, Mr. Maldon winked at the young man, and slapping him good-heartedly on the back, invited his guests to warm themselves by the fire.
Tom quickly escorted his mother into the dining room. It seemed much smaller than when he had last been there, and also a little shabbier. He had never noticed before the fading to the velvet curtains or the marks and scratches on the dark furniture. He could not help but compare the place to his new home, the grand and spacious Ashford Manor, and even the townhouse in Bath. The rectory, the place he had loved for years, suddenly made him feel ill at ease and uncomfortable. Still, his mother was happy, and he smiled for her sake, as he took his seat uneasily by the fire.
During this time, Henrietta had stood patiently in the shadows of the hall, waiting for her chance to approach Tom and give him her present.
He seemed so different, so unlike the Tom she had known, and even the imagined Tom in her stories, and she felt suddenly shy. This was not how she had imagined their meeting again. She had played the scene often enough in her head. He had walked through the door, and ignoring her family, had rushed to where she had been standing, and swept her into his arms and kissed her.
As it was, he had not even noticed her.
Still, the rolled up manuscript was firmly in her grasp, and with a bold determination, she approached his chair with some anxiety.
“Henry, I wondered where you were.”
Tom’s face brightened, finally seeing his young friend and partner in crime. Surely dear Henry would not have changed?
Approaching him quite formally, she held out the roll of vellum and blushed.
“Happy Christmas, Tom,” was all she could muster.
Even dear Henrietta was acting strangely.
Before the young man could answer, her mother bustled into the room.
“Now Henrietta. Do not get in young Mr. Langton’s way. We all want to hear of his adventures. Now, do have a glass of mulled wine with us, Thomas, and tell us all of your news.”
Much to Henrietta’s dismay, Tom put down the scroll beside him on the chair, unread and abandoned, as he held out his hands to accept the spiced warm concoction.
Opening her mouth to protest, her mother gave her youngest daughter a stern look to quieten her. Henrietta bit her lip and tried not to think about it. There would be time enough to sit with him and discuss her story.
Eventually Tom relaxed, the strong wine helping him to feel more at ease with every glass. Soon, he was regaling the family with his stories of college, and the grand circles he now moved in, and the conversation flowed as easily as the wine that was poured from large pewter jugs.
After the supper, Jane would insist on playing the pianoforte and singing. Henrietta yawned. It was past her bedtime, but she would wait until she could have Tom all to herself.
“Henrietta, it is time for bed,” her mother shook her gently. Henry opened her eyes. She was laying on the chaise lounge; she must have fallen to sleep.
The young girl rubbed at her eyes, and then looked around the room quickly.
It was eerily quiet after the noise of the party.
“Where is Tom?”
Her mother tutted.
“Never mind, young master Thomas. He and his mother are long since gone. The carriage has been back some five and twenty minutes. You have been asleep all this time. You should have slept last night, instead of all of this silly writing.”
Henrietta stood up with a start.
Her story!
Rushing into the parlour, she looked around the room. There was nothing on the chair where Tom had been seated. Perhaps he had taken the present with him after all?
But as she was about to turn and leave the room, she noticed a small band of blue sticking out from under the chair.
Bending down, she picked up the roll of paper still tied in its ribbon.
Henrietta’s heart was almost broken in two, as she gazed at the unopened present. Her story. The greatest story she had ever written—and all for Tom. It had been forgotten, abandoned. He had not even untied the blue ribbon. He obviously did not care at all about her or her story. For all she knew, he was probably in love with her sister Jane; the two had been talking all evening.
The young girl could feel her temper start to rise, the sadness replaced by anger. They had shaken hands, sworn an oath to each other, and he had let her down so cruelly. She had imagined him so many times, eager to read the story as soon as it had been presented to him, he declaring it the greatest story ever told.
She had been forgotten, and the promise has been just a silly pretence, and quite forgotten by the young man.
As the hot tears sprang to her eyes, Henrietta seized the paper, and striding over to the fireplace, threw the story into the flames of the fire. She hated Thomas Langton, and vowed that she would never speak to him again as long as she lived.
Her heart was well and truly broken.
Henrietta did not have to try very hard to stick to her vow, for due to circumstances, they would not meet again for another three years. In fact, Tom was only to visit his old friends once again during that time, which fortunately coincided with a period when Henrietta was away at a small school for girls with her sisters, Jane and Kitty, several miles away. It was not what you would have called a “proper” school, not in the sense of education, but Mrs. Maldon was hoping for a different kind of education, something that would refine her young daughters, especially young Henrietta, who was not in the least bit ladylike.
They had been sent away as Parlour Borders at some expense, however, Mrs. Maldon had recently benefitted from a small inheritance, and thought the money well spent if it helped secure eligible young men for her daughters.
Over those three years, Henrietta had blossomed into quite a striking, if not beautiful young woman. Her flame-red hair and grey eyes were a startling combination. At the age of fifteen, she was still scolded by her mama for her unladylike behavior, and her love of climbing trees and books. Her temper was still seen when provoked, and she was both forthright and bold in her manner.
Her mama despaired. These were not the qualities that made for an advantageous match in a young lady.
Her beauty did not go unnoticed. She had made the acquaintance of several young men, some from the village of her school, and some back home. George had now left home for his own college education, and was training to be a cleric like his father. With the girls also away, Mr. Maldon had decided to increase his income, by opening the rectory as a small educational establishment, able to take four boys at £60 a year. With the expense of the girls being boarded, the revenue would be most welcome as well as needed, even with Mrs. Maldon’s inheritance.
A young fair haired boy, a shy youth named William Hetherington, took a particular shine to young Henry. She first encountered him in her father’s small library. On arriving home from the school one Saturday morning on a visit, she had rushed into the library to check on her father’s latest purchases, in the hope of finding a good book to take back to school with her.
Sat in her chair by the window, was a rather pale faced boy, his hair almost as fair as his complexion. Reading intently, he did not notice as the young girl entered.
Henrietta felt herself bristle. She had not minded that her father was using her room for boarding the young men, but suddenly felt indignant as seeing a stranger sat in perfect ease in her own special place. Only her father and herself had used this room, and she was reluctant to share it with another, especially a stranger.
Henrietta gave a small cough to announce her arrival.
The boy looked up immediately, his large blue eyes solemn in his thin face.
His cheeks flushed and he stood up immediately.
“Oh, g … g … good morning,” the boy stammered, quite taken aback by the sight of the young lady standing before him.
“How d … d … d … do you do. W … w … w … William Hetherington at y … y … your service.”
Henrietta’s indignation soon gave way, as the youth made a very solemn and low bow, and she had to stifle a grin.
Approaching him, she held out her hand.
“Henrietta Maldon, but you can call me Henry.”
Much to the girl’s delight, the two shared a love of the same adventure books, and the common interest bound them together. Henry looked forward to her Saturday visits, almost as much as the boy looked forward to hers. His health not being strong, William Hetherington was less active, and did not join in the games and activities of the other boys.
Kitty and Jane would often join the young men on walks and picnics on their visits home, but Henrietta preferred to stay and sit with him. It was almost like having Tom back with her, however, although William loved books, he was no replacement for the dashing and adventurous Tom. He could never be the hero in her stories.
In the warmer weather, they would sit beneath the apple tree, reading out loud to each other, or writing new stories to read out loud to each other. The friendship blossomed between the two young people, and there was an easy familiarity between them.
William loved to write, and on one particularly sunny and beautiful Saturday afternoon, the boy handed her a poem he had written.
Without a thought, Henry hastily opened the paper and began to read out loud, but after reading the first two lines, fell quiet.
The beauty of the rose in bloom
Is nothing as compared to thine
and those eyes that sparkle so
As brightly as the sun doth shine
I wish I were the breeze that kisses
Fair upon thy gentle face
One I know so fair and lovely
Light of foot and full of grace
Oh gentle maid now tell me truly
Have I your heart as you have mine
Can I hope, to love you dearly?
Share my happiness with thine.
Henry felt her heart beat fast. Of course, the boy had been falling in love with her, but she had not acknowledged it to herself, and definitely not to him. She had enjoyed his company, and so had encouraged his friendship, but this!
Her eyes did not leave the paper for a long time as she reread the poem. She could feel the young man’s eager eyes upon her, and she was afraid of meeting his gaze and betraying her emotions. Finally, she had to look at him, and his eyes were large and full of expectation.
“W … w … what do you think, Henry?” The boy’s stammer had suddenly returned.
Without any warning, a great tide of emotion swept over the boy, and overcoming his shyness, he plucked a rose from a nearby bush, and knelt before her.
“Do you think you can ever love me, Henry?”
Her puzzled expression worried him.
It was almost like a scene from one of her novels, and it was almost comical to see the boy so earnestly kneeling in front of her. But it was no laughing matter. She knew too well what it was like to be broken-hearted, and the boy was too tender, too fragile to hurt.
Taking the proffered rose gently from his hand, she smiled sweetly, hiding her misgivings.
“Darling William. Your poem
is beautiful, I am deeply touched, but I am yet not sixteen, and I think my mother would think me too young to form any attachments. We are happy as we are, are we not?”
The boy looked crestfallen for a moment, before taking her gently by the hand.
“But Henry. Y … Y … You do love me a little bit, do not you? Please say I may have some hope. I can wait for you. Promise me?”
Her thoughts filled with another promise she had made. It had been a silly and girlish promise, she could see that now, but the thought still made her feel uneasy.
William started to cough. The sun had hidden behind a cloud and it had turned cooler.
“We should be getting inside, William. You do not want to catch a chill.”
The boy persisted and continued to hold her hand.
“What say you, Henry?”
The boy coughed again and his cheeks grew pale. She could hardly refuse him.
“Yes, I promise, William. But it must be our secret, no one else should know. We are too young at the moment, but we can wait.”
“I have your promise?”
The girl hesitated.
“You have my promise. Now, let us go inside.”
The boy still held onto her hand.
“And do you think you could ever love me, even a little?”
Henrietta did not want to lie. She had been lied to before, and she had vowed never to promise anything that she did not really mean. It was true, she did love him, but only as a friend, like a brother, yet perhaps her friendship would one day blossom?
The boy would not move without an answer, and he looked at her so hopefully.
“Yes, William, perhaps I can love you in time.”
There, she had not promised him anything too onerous, but she had also not, not promised him either.
Kissing her hands, the boy almost wept with relief. A dark cloud passed over her heart, unsure that she had done the right thing, but what was the right thing in this situation?
Henrietta was relieved that the little romantic episode did not really change anything in their friendship, and felt everything would eventually work out well. Their Saturday meetings continued in the library, and from the outside, no one would suspect anything was between them, other than just friendship. Apart from the odd adoring gaze when William thought that she was not watching, the promise remained a secret.
