Taking this in, Henrietta remembered what her mother once taught her, that men shall always assume it is up to them to right the wrongs in the world, unless it pertains to how they feel, then it is up to the women around them. Today, she’d leave that for Sissy. She didn’t have it in her to take on anyone else’s feelings.
Henrietta set her tea on the desk. There were papers everywhere. She needed to make some sense of their order and file away what didn’t need to be kept out. On the left was a growing pile of pages of her story. Seeing it gave her a sense of accomplishment like few things did. Cooking a meal or scrubbing the floor were things she had to do. Writing gave her purpose.
To her right, a jumble of crumpled pages, ink-stained rags, an empty plate or three, and scraps of paper scribbled with notes, threatened to topple over. It was a wonder she found anything. Rescuing the plates, she put them on the floor for the next time she went to the kitchen.
An idea struck.
What if Bethia became Lord Markham’s accomplice? Would they fall in love, or hang from the same tree with the sun setting behind them?
Such grim thoughts, but Henrietta couldn’t stop her chuckle of delight.
She dipped her quill into the ink pot and wrote out notes to herself. After she finished her work for her uncle, she’d return to it.
Henrietta scanned the first confidential letter written in her uncle’s stiff script. As usual, it began with obsequious praise which ran the length of two paragraphs. In the third, he wrote of a special guest on the Margate remaining in custody after several attempts to escape failed. They didn’t know who was behind it yet, but they had their suspicions.
Henrietta didn’t know what a Margate was, but guests rarely required escape in order to leave. By golly, she’d leave the door wide open if it meant her guests might go.
Her uncle went on to write that the men responsible for the attempted escape were traitors who needed their necks stretched.
Goodness, this would be a challenge to encipher this using a bible. A headache bloomed between her brows. She knew her Bible stories as well as the next person, but not enough to know where to find specific words.
She fanned through the musty pages, hoping to land magically on a phrase from her uncle’s letter. This was why it was a brilliant key for enciphering, and bloody difficult to use.
“Pardon me, Mrs. C.” Augie stood in the doorway, clasping the frame.
Henrietta paused with her finger pointing to a verse she’d found in Mark about insurgents. “Good morning, Mr. Middleton. Did you sleep well?” The tip of her finger itched against the page. Before he could answer her, she blurted, “I’m reading.” Then braced herself for the lightning bolt God would surely strike upon her.
“I noticed.”
A silence stretched between them. She scrambled to find something pleasant to say, but all her thoughts lent to hiding the Bible without him noticing. It couldn't be done.
“A messenger came by. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
Henrietta gave up and rubbed her ink-stained hands together, a regular Lady Macbeth. “A messenger? Thank you.” She could hardly meet his gaze.
He handed her an unsealed note.
She glanced at the note and jumped from her chair, Bible falling to the floor. “My friend had her baby!”
“What good news!” he said with genuine enthusiasm. “Ho, Marcus! Her friend had her baby.”
Henrietta read the note again, tuning out Augie and Marcus. Before this moment, she did not know how this news would make her feel. After Willow’s death, she could barely look at a child without falling apart. That hadn’t happened in a while. But her friends would thrust this baby into her arms. Friends who never knew she once had a child of her own. And there it was. The pinch in her breast on the soft underside of her heart.
“I’ll go at once.” Anything to get out of the house, away from Willow’s room and her mounting problems, even if it meant confronting the hole in her heart.
Henrietta shuffled her papers and straightened her desk, locking her uncle’s correspondences and Bible in the drawer. In the hallway, Marcus and Augie were talking.
“Uh, Hen? Hetty Betty?”
Her head snapped up, face blazing from hiding her secret work. If they noticed, they didn’t mention it.
“We had an idea last night. Before you leave, can we show you what we were thinking?”
“If it doesn’t involve . . .” Henrietta swallowed against her parched throat. She wasn’t cut out for intelligence and secrets. She began again in a whisper. “Removing a certain sergeant from the premises, I’m not interested.”
Marcus grinned. “In the hallway, Hetty Betty. If you please?”
Henrietta dropped the message regarding Frances’s baby into the decorative bowl in the foyer with others of its kind. Marcus led them to the foot of the attic stairs. “Instead of remov—”
“Shhhh!” Henrietta hissed.
“He’s gone for the day. But we were thinking of building a pulley system so I can get up and down the stairs on my own. This would solve two major problems. One, getting to you quickly should you ever have need of me. And two, so I’m not stuck in the attic like a deranged cousin you’re hiding from the world.”
“I’m not hiding you.”
“She’s not only lovely, folks, she’s funny too. Can we build it?”
Marcus was like a child with an absurd idea he couldn’t let go of.
“Well, there’s the trifling problem of ownership. The house isn’t mine, it’s my uncle’s, and you’re suggesting irreversible changes when you’re here for only the next six weeks.”
“Five weeks and three days, and it will be reversible,” Marcus corrected.
“He’ll hate it.” While her uncle would hate it, the idea of upsetting him gave her momentary satisfaction.
“Your uncle’ll hate anything benefiting you. Let’s not tell him.”
“He enjoys making arrests,” she countered, thinking of the letter in her desk drawer.
“We know,” Augie said. “He arrested one of our friends.”
“He did?” Her voice pitched, laced with guilt. “Why?” She’d read in the newspaper about an uptick in arrests. This couldn’t be more than a coincidence.
Marcus flicked a dismissive hand. “He was in the right place at the wrong time.”
Confused, she tilted her head, looking between Marcus and Augie for what she was missing. “That’s how it works.”
“True,” Marcus said. “He had the right to be there. He probably shouldn’t have stuck around.”
Why was she bothering with this absurd conversation? “Why is ‘sticking around’ a crime?”
“Because ‘sticking around’ entailed gathering information he wasn’t supposed to.”
Irritation flared in a coil inside of her. “Maybe the information shouldn’t have been left in the open.” That was why she locked her desk.
“Maybe some things aren’t easily hidden,” Marcus countered.
She threw her hands up. “What does that even mean?”
Marcus edged the chair away from her, making an awful, squeaking, lurching sound he seemed to enjoy. “Nobody knows how many British soldiers are still in the city. I’m not saying he does, but he’s usually fairly accurate with his accuracy.”
“I can see why you were worried about being considered a deranged cousin.” Henrietta slapped her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. Lately, I can’t stop myself. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
Little chuffs of laughter barked from Marcus. He wiped his eyes. “Oh, don’t stop being forthright on my account. You’re more entertaining than Augie is lately.”
“I’m not here to entertain,” Augie snarled.
Henrietta let out a gust of breath. “Fi
ne. Build your pulley system. But I expect more lessons with you.” He needed to practice reading if he wanted to succeed.
Marcus rolled himself closer to Henrietta. “Then I’ll expect the same.” His words were a low threat.
A mortifying fever came over her. Did he mean he’d kiss her again, or was he finally serious about helping her land a husband?
~ ~ ~
Henrietta arrived at Frances’s house at the same time as Mrs. Moskowitz and Mrs. Medina.
“Oh, no, you don’t. I haven’t held a baby since my grandson was born, six years ago.” Mrs. Moskowitz elbowed her way past Mrs. Medina. Henrietta walked faster to keep pace.
“Exactly,” said Mrs. Medina. “You’ve probably forgotten how. I’ll be happy to show you the latest technique.”
The older woman threw her hands against Mrs. Medina’s bum-roll and shoved her out of the way.
“Pish-posh. God gave me two good hands, and an excellent ankle kick. I’ll hold the baby first, thank you very much.”
Though Henrietta wasn’t vying for the baby, she slowed, a smile playing on her lips. “Age before beauty.” She held her hand out in a supplicating gesture for both of them to pass.
“No need to get nasty with me.” Mrs. Moskowitz held her head high and entered the house before Henrietta and Mrs. Medina.
Dr. Nealy stood at a tea table, dropping vials into his bag. Mrs. Moskowitz paid him no mind and continued up the stairs, past a maid carrying a basket of laundry. Mrs. Medina followed behind at a slower pace. Henrietta approached Dr. Nealy.
“Is she well?”
He didn’t look well with shadows under his eyes. “Quite. Though Mrs. Gittel should mind her own business. There was swelling and that flibbertigibbet refused my suggestion of a hog’s lard poultice.”
Henrietta’s brows rose. “Allow me to guess. There was no hog’s lard about?” Was there any chance he’d appreciate her forthrightness as much as Marcus?
Dr. Nealy paused, hands deep in his bag. “There was not. And in such a prosperous household!”
Henrietta didn’t know much about how Jews lived, but she knew enough. Pigs and their relations were prohibited, though she didn’t understand why. They were perfectly intelligent and funny creatures. “Couldn’t you use another source of lard?”
“Why would I? The medical texts prescribe lard from a hog.”
“Why, indeed?” Her patience flailed. He wasn’t shaping out to be a man she could spend any amount of time with, without wanting to rip her hair out one strand at a time.
Mrs. Gittel flew down the stairs and charged at them like a woman on the prow of a ship forging through rough waters. “I told him to use schmaltz. Did he listen? No, he did not.”
“I don’t understand half of what she says,” he huffed.
Instead of rolling her eyes, Henrietta gave him one more chance. Using one of Marcus’s flirting techniques, she’d try to salvage the situation. Placing a hand on his arm and lowering her eyelashes, she said, “Tell me about the baby. Is he big?”
A howl ripped through the air, startling her, clamping her hand on him like a vise.
“Loud.” Dr. Nealy regarded her hand on his arm in confusion.
Patting his arm, she removed her hand. She could blame the baby’s howls, but she’d felt no thrill in touching him. Good. That was what she wanted.
Mrs. Gittel gave her a pointed look of amusement. The baby settled, leaving Henrietta’s ears ringing.
“You’ll come to the baby’s bris? She’ll want you to come,” Mrs. Gittel said.
Her friends had spoken of the event on the chance the baby was born a boy. In about a week, they’d gather to perform the ancient religious ritual. “But I’m not a Jew.”
“You’re practically family. You have to come.”
Dr. Nealy snapped his bag shut. She and Mrs. Gittel stood in front of him, blocking his leave-taking. They closed ranks, cutting off his exit.
Dr. Nealy frowned. “You keep calling him ‘the baby’. After nine months, she couldn’t bother with naming him?”
“I’m sure they chose a name, but they won’t reveal it until the bris,” Mrs. Gittel said. “It’s bad luck. Without a name, the Angel of Death won’t know who to come for.”
Dr. Nealy blinked slowly, likely trying to stave off apoplexy.
For a flashing moment, Henrietta’s thoughts seized on this Jewish custom. Maybe if she’d never named Willow, she’d still be with her today. That was just magical thinking, and she knew it. How could she not have named her child? A name was the first and most important gift given to a person. She let the thought go. There was no going backward in time.
“That’s preposterous,” Dr. Nealy finally said.
An idea formed. A desperate one, as Dr. Nealy was losing points at a game he didn’t know he was playing. “I’ll bring Dr. Nealy as my guest. What do you say?”
He stared at her, sparing a moment for Mrs. Gittel. The older woman held a grimace, waiting for his answer. There was no love lost between them.
At last, he mumbled, “If I don’t have a sick patient, it would be an honor.”
In a fit of delirium that her ploy worked, she grabbed both of Dr. Nealy’s arms and squeezed. He went pale.
“Wonderful. I won’t be the only gentile.”
“Friend Sarah was also invited.” Mrs. Gittel’s words came out closer to a threat than a gentle reminder.
“If you’ll excuse me, I must be going.” Dr. Nealy extricated himself and grabbed his bag. Henrietta stared after his retreating form. He was a little too sure of his own knowledge. At least he was dedicated to his patients.
“Darling, he’s not the one for you.”
Henrietta turned to face her friend. “Hmm?”
Mrs. Gittel took her hand and led her up the stairs. “I see the look in your eyes. You’re wondering if he’ll make a decent husband. He shall.” She made a skeptical face all the same. “He’ll provide for his wife, give her a house and children. He’ll be home every night, unless he’s needed in an emergency. It’s a life many would envy. But he’ll always be right, and though he’ll never hurt you, he’ll not permit you to argue with him. Some things are not worth the compromise. Take it from me. I was married for thirty-four years. Arguing was half the fun.”
“And the other half?”
Mrs. Gittel raised one perfectly plucked brow. “Oh, darling. Find yourself a man to argue with, and you’ll understand.” She patted Henrietta’s hand and let her enter Frances’s bedroom first.
Bound in a soft, white blanket fringed in lace and dotted with eyelets, the baby suckled at his mother’s breast. One tiny, red hand punched out and spread its starfish fingers against his mother’s pale chest.
Frances’s eyes were closed. Movement traced beneath bruised lids.
“Oh,” Henrietta gasped, hand to her own bosom. “Frances.”
She knew what scene she’d come upon here. She’d braced for it while Mrs. Gittel spoke of husbands and arguments. The shock didn’t come from viewing the newly born baby so much as the intimacy shared between mother and child, though neither were awake. The connection had already taken hold.
At Henrietta’s whispers, Frances’s eyes fluttered open. They were bloodshot and bleary. Mrs. Moskowitz, who’d been sitting by her side, poured a cup of ale and handed it to Frances. She pressed it to her brow to cool herself before putting it to her lips to drink.
Henrietta looked about the room for some way to be helpful.
Frances’s husband, with a thick black beard and long curls at his ears, entered the room with a haunted expression. “Thank you for coming. It was a long night. Friend Sarah just left.”
“We’re not here to see each other, we’re here to see the baby.” Mrs. Gittel flocked to the baby to drop a wet kiss on his
head. He popped off Frances’s breast with a milky scowl. “Can I hold him?”
“He was busy, you know.” Frances covered herself and handed off her son. Mrs. Gittel had him over her shoulder, rubbing his back. “Oy, he’s a big one.”
“I feared I might lose my Franny.” Mr. Mizrahi rubbed a knuckle over his brow.
“I told him to go below stairs and have a drink, but he wouldn’t leave my side.” Frances sank into her pillows, sighing, and fell asleep.
The room closed in on Henrietta. She knew the wall was four feet away, but its nearness lurked like a stranger’s breath at the back of her neck. With too little space between herself and the house, there wasn’t enough air, not with so many bodies in the room, perspiring and worrying and whispering. The palms of her hands tingled. Her thoughts scattered like fireflies in the night. Her heart beat faster and faster, as if it might crack out of her chest and beat its wings to fly far away.
The baby let out a cry. The sound cleaved Henrietta in two. Mrs. Gittel bounced, bounced, bounced with the baby. She swept past Henrietta, a tune humming from her lips. Tiny wet fingers fanned out and snagged Henrietta’s hair, the pain a sharp bite on her scalp.
She saw Willow in Mrs. Gittel’s arms. Big eyes and small fingers, nails barely defined and razor sharp. Sharp enough to cut right to the heart of her.
“I’m sorry. I need to leave. I remembered—” Breathless, Henrietta ran down the stairs and out the door.
Outside was too warm. For a spring day, with birds chirping and the sun beaming, there didn’t seem to be enough air to breathe. She ripped at her fichu, tearing it from her neck. She needed her home, surrounded by the comfort of her things, where her memories didn’t rise up and shock her because they were all she had.
Chapter 12
“We’ll be sailing again soon, boys.” Turk leaned his shoulders against the wall. Unlike the last time Marcus saw him in a drab brown suit, today his coat was a vibrant ruby red of jacquard silk, decked with two dozen embroidered buttons, woven with gold threads. Underneath, a cream-colored waistcoat with a pleasure garden scene played out in tiny glass beads. “I hear tell they’ll be offering letters of marque by next week.”
A Widow's Guide to Scandal (The Sons of Neptune Book 1) Page 10
