A Widow's Guide to Scandal (The Sons of Neptune Book 1)

by Hallie Alexander

  Listening intently, he heard a sound, a scratching susurration that called to him from across the hall. He should gather his few belongings and leave. He couldn’t fix this problem. No amount of pounding and sanding would make it go away.

  Instead of taking himself to the attic, he followed the sound of a quill moving across paper. Marcus leaned against the arched opening of the study. Henrietta sat at her desk writing furiously, dipping her quill, and writing more. The words poured out of her. Whole worlds closed off to him. He was a spectator in this aspect of her life. He might as well have been looking in through a window, forever separated. Why would he think he was man enough to marry Henrietta? Of course, she’d reject him.

  An apology sat on his lips, but he couldn’t spit it out. He was sorry for the false sense of privacy in her kitchen. He was sorry for telling her they were marrying without asking her first. He was sorry for the man he was and the one he never would be.

  ~ ~ ~

  Henrietta reviewed what she feverishly wrote. It seemed she couldn’t work out her own emotions until she put them to paper. Bethia became her reflection.

  Bethia and Lord Markham set out to explore every room in the castle. They figured out it had once belonged to the Duke of Hartford, a man convicted and hanged for treason for selling the King’s secrets to enhance his wealth.

  On this day, Bethia and Lord Markham found themselves in the North tower. The room was a storeroom for broken furniture and forgotten novelties. Bethia lifted the dusty cloth off a small painting, no larger than a dinner plate.

  “Bring the lantern here,” she said. Lord Markham dropped a broken spindle chair, picked up the lantern from the card table with a ripped baize, and went to her side.

  “What did you find?” His breath curled warmth at her neck, making her shiver.

  Bethia knew she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t resist. She stroked her finger over the visage of a young woman holding a small child. The child twisted in the mother’s arms, reaching for something beyond the canvas. The mother’s unsteady gaze spoke of love and exhaustion.

  “Madonna and child. Seen one, seen all of them. You don’t strike me as the sentimental or religious type.”

  “Why?” she questioned. “Because I sent you to the oubliette?”

  “Not an ounce of tenderness. I don’t count the time you lowered a basket of cheese, bread, and wine to me. Which, by the way, wherever did you find them?”

  “Never mind my secrets. Look at the composition of this painting. The choice of colors! I swear, by all that is art, this is a Farenghetti.”

  He adjusted the angle she held the canvas, covering his hand with hers. A molten connection grew between them.

  In Henrietta’s mind, the child had strawberry-blonde curls not easily tamed and a round face with brown eyes set wide over rosebud lips. Willow.

  She set down her quill and blinked back tears. She hadn’t meant to write her daughter into the story. She meant to write a means for Bethia to gain enough wealth to do as she pleased. The painting would sell for thousands. If she wanted to, she could pay Lord Markham’s taxes and buy his non-entailed estates. He’d never need to act as a highwayman again, setting himself upon unsuspecting travelers and stealing from them.

  Henrietta meant for them to fall in love, except she hadn’t figured out how they would move forward once they settled the past.

  She wasn’t sorry she asked Marcus to leave. She wouldn’t be able to face him day in and night out, thinking about what might have been if he loved her back. He didn’t. She wouldn’t beg for it. Love didn’t work that way. She only regretted how she treated Sarah. She was scared and lashed out at her friend, but that was no excuse.

  The cold truth was, Henrietta had two options. She could live with her brother in Boston to become the governess everyone expected of her. Any sense of self, opinion or otherwise, would fade over time until even her shadow disappeared. Or, she could finish her novel and publish it. Sales would grant her enough for a small cottage in the mountains. She’d like that. Unfortunately, she wasn’t sure who would read such a story. She would. The ladies in her reading club might have, if she hadn’t disgraced herself. Did other women wish to read books about a woman taking control of her life and falling in love? It was as subversive an idea as an American sovereign nation.

  She needed to finish writing her book.

  Shrupp would return in five days. She wasn’t ready to be destitute, which meant as much as she was loath to do it, she had to decipher the rest of Caldwell’s letters to buy herself more time. At least until he heard how far she had fallen. Meanwhile, she would continue to misinterpret a line or two to keep her conscience clear.

  The hall floor creaked. She wasn’t ready to face anyone. Having a door to the study would have been perfect.

  “Pardon me, Henrietta?”

  Asher leaned against the entrance of the study as if it were holding him up. Henrietta rose from her seat and went to him. His skin was clammy but cool, and not as gray as it had been. As far as she knew, he had eaten little. Better to start him with broth.

  Asher brushed her hands away. “I’m feeling better. Truly.” He grinned before turning to have a coughing spell in the hallway. When he returned to her, his eyes were glassy and cheeks pink. “But Hardwicke.” He shook his head, clearing his throat. “Did you mean for him to take apart your pantry?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Henrietta entered the kitchen. Sissy snored by the hearth. The unscrewed doors to the cupboard leaned against the benches, the contents piled on top of the table. Marcus was nowhere. From outside, she heard a syncopated rhythm.

  “Where is he going? He can’t leave my kitchen like this.” She stepped through the front door and shielded her eyes from the bright sun. The man would be the death of her. She stepped back inside. “What is he doing?”

  Sissy, suddenly awake, barked an answer. Asher looked out the window. “Town’s that way, ain’t it?” He pointed in the direction Marcus was heading in Slow Dick’s cart. “Guess he needed supplies.”

  “He needs a swift kick to the backside. I asked him to leave, not make more of a mess.” Her cheeks and the tips of her ears burned. Asher must have heard all that transpired.

  He sighed. “No worries. His intentions are in the right place, but as usual, his focus is a little off. I guess he reached his limit on being caged like a trick bear.”

  “With a trap on his leg? Hmmph. And he thought marriage was a good idea?” Henrietta looked over the contents on the table. She’d been meaning to take inventory. There were six unopened jars of preserves to take her through fruit harvest season. Two wax-sealed pots of honey she bought off Frances last year, before she’d announced her pregnancy. She needed more ground flour. In a week, she ought to make fresh butter. The basket containing the broken bits of her clock sat amongst her stores. Anger flared fresh at the thought of Caldwell.

  She’d be lucky to have a cupboard in a week’s time, let alone a house.

  Asher was sitting on the bench, cradling his head in his hands. She couldn’t think about next week when she had more important concerns in the present.

  “I’ll heat you up some broth. Then I must insist you rest.”

  After a small meal, Henrietta returned to the study. She laid out the colonel’s papers and the work she’d started before heading to Bedloe’s Island. For the rest of the afternoon, she applied herself to the task. The secret letters read of rebels and their cache of weapons, gunpowder stored in a barn in Stratford, and warehouses filled with barrels of bullets. It was unsettling how much the British knew. There had to be spies throughout the American line. Which meant the rebels were already losing.

  It was getting late. From the study, she heard no noises from the kitchen. It was either still a mess or not. She found that hard to believe, but she hadn�
��t heard Marcus take apart the cupboard in the first place.

  Tapping the end of her quill against her desk, she studied a particularly difficult anagram in a sea of numbers. Haggard feather owl. Had the British moved on to harassing birds?

  Henrietta sat back in her chair and rubbed her tired eyes.

  “Hetty Betty?”

  Her head popped up. “You startled me.” Holding a hand to her racing heart, she took in Marcus, standing in the doorway, leaning on a cane. “Did you trounce an old lady for her cane?”

  “It was close. I got her with the old ‘what’s that over there?’ Then I ripped it from her gnarled hands and limped away faster.” He offered a crooked smile.

  “Congratulations.” A chasm opened in Henrietta’s chest where her heart had been.

  “I fixed your cupboard.” He bit his lip and tunneled his fingers through his hair as if telling her made him nervous. His hair looked like a drunk hedgehog.

  “I appreciate it. When shall you be leaving?”

  He continued to stand there and study the arched entrance. His gaze followed the curve around to the other side. Tapping the walls, he listened for the change in tone as his rhythm found beams behind the plaster. “You want pocket doors?”

  Henrietta’s brows bunched together. The man was impossible. “No, Marcus. I do not. I won’t be living here long enough for it to make a difference. And neither shall you. You should pack up your cart and leave.” She knew why he was doing this. Doing all the things. She knew he felt bad and words didn’t come as easily for him as action. She hated that she knew him so well.

  He finally looked at her instead of the arch. “Fine. If you won’t marry me, I’m straight out asking you to be my mistress. You’ll have a place to live, an allowance, and protection from your uncle. If you tire of me, you’ll still be welcome for as long as you like.”

  “He’s not my uncle, Marcus. Please take your leave. I have more important things on my mind.”

  He remained. “There must be something I can offer.”

  “There’s not a damn thing you can offer! Stop worrying about my future or I shall resort to doing you violence. Do you understand? I’m not marrying you or agreeing to whatever half-arsed proposal you are offering. Nor am I staying here. I have nowhere to go, but I’d rather go alone than be shackled to a man who doesn’t love me.”

  She gasped. The scrambled phrase took shape.

  Wharf at Loggerhead.

  Henrietta rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. The room spun. She had eaten nothing in hours. What did Wharf at Loggerhead mean? She must be wrong. After all, she didn’t know what a loggerhead was. She construed the word wharf and forced what remained of the letters.

  She needed to take a break, not fight with Marcus.

  She made the mistake of looking at him and seeing the hurt in his eyes. Her heart opened up and swallowed her whole. Why couldn’t he love her? Was she so unlovable?

  Chapter 24

  Henrietta arrived at Frances’s home on Thursday morning, in time for reading club. Any other day, she’d enter without knocking, lay her food offering on the table, and take a seat beside one of her friends. They’d regale each other with hilarious stories until finally settling to discuss what they’d read.

  Today, she didn’t want to assume she was welcome. Though she was fairly confident Sarah didn’t gossip, she didn’t trust Dr. Nealy. Five days was a long time for him to spread his opinions wide.

  Standing on the stoop in the misting rain, deciding whether to knock or enter, whole minutes passed. Knowing what awaited her on the other side of the door would help. She was paralyzed with indecision. The plate of scones in her hands shook.

  The door opened, and Mrs. Medina took one look at her and scowled. Henrietta winced.

  “Scones? Since when do you bake scones?” She grabbed the plate from Henrietta and went back into the house, leaving the front door open. Henrietta adjusted her skirts and smoothed her hands down the bodice of her dress and stepped inside.

  Mrs. Moskowitz danced around the parlor with baby Levi in her arms, bouncing and humming at the little bundle. Mrs. Medina was sitting on the settee. A gentle breeze fluttered in through the window, bringing with it the earthy scent of the rain mixing with the river. A carriage rolled by, wheels clacking against the street.

  Henrietta took a seat beside Mrs. Medina. “Where’s Frances?” She sat with her back rigid, ankles crossed, and gloved hands folded together. The dratted gloves were practically melting into her skin the way her palms were moist with perspiration. She shouldn’t have come. Should she say something first? Maybe they hadn’t heard. “Is she not well?”

  “Och, she had a long night. She’ll be down in a moment.” Mrs. Medina patted Henrietta’s knee. “And Mrs. Gittel had an errand. She’ll come after.” She leaned forward to choose one of Henrietta’s scones.

  Henrietta sprang to her feet. She should prove herself useful, that her character wasn’t entirely blackened, just a little singed. “Does Frances need help?”

  “Verity’s here.”

  Verity Hastings, a twelve-year-old girl, lived up the street and came during the day to help with chores.

  “Ay. This is good. Did you use cider to moisten the cranberries?” Mrs. Medina set aside her plate and handed a platter of brown misshapen sweets to Henrietta. “I found a new receipt for ratafia cakes. Here.”

  “Thank you.” Henrietta chose one. Across the room, Mrs. Moskowitz caught her eye mid-sway and shook her head. Was she censuring Henrietta or the cake?

  The sound of footsteps on the stairs saved her. Frances joined them, giving Henrietta an opportunity to pocket Mrs. Medina’s cake.

  “Don’t you look positively radiant,” Mrs. Medina sang.

  “If by radiant you mean leaking milk, why yes I am.” She cradled her bosom, straining against a shapeless gown. “If they get any larger, I’ll scare the cows.”

  “I’m sure Levi thinks they’re wonderful.” Mrs. Moskowitz gave the baby an extra bounce.

  “I bet Mr. Mizrahi does too.” Mrs. Medina cackled.

  Henrietta hiccupped a laugh, trying not to draw attention to herself.

  Frances shuddered. “I love my husband, but if he touches me, he might lose a finger.” She sat with a deep sigh, closing her eyes for a moment. “I don’t have to tell you I didn’t read this month’s book, do I? I’m hosting, so I didn’t have to read.”

  Mrs. Medina took another scone. “You had a baby, so you didn’t have to read.”

  “You say it as if I had the baby to avoid reading this book.”

  “I don’t know? Did you? Where’s Friend Sarah? Did we frighten her away with this selection? She likes epistolaries.”

  Henrietta felt her face heat. She shouldn’t have come.

  Mrs. Moskowitz adjusted Levi’s cap. “I’m not certain Fanny Hill’s letters to her madam is what she meant by enjoying epistolaries. If she isn’t here by now, I doubt she’s coming.”

  Henrietta forgot to read the book, what with all the commotion in her home, but she knew what the book was about. A desperate woman who resorted to prostitution for survival. A month ago—no, a week ago—she’d have judged Fanny’s choices differently. Now, she understood how few choices Fanny had.

  She doubted Dr. Nealy would allow Sarah to partake in reading club, or any social activity with her again. It wasn’t right to take this from Sarah. She should be the one to quit.

  Henrietta’s stomach cramped. She had to say something. Or leave. The discussion would begin any moment.

  The baby made sucking sounds in his sleep. Mrs. Moskowitz glided into a chair. “Heaven forbid she learns a thing or two about relations before her marriage.”

  Henrietta whipped her gaze to Mrs. Moskowitz, dread gathering inside of her. If Mrs. Moskowitz already k
new about their impending marriage, she must also know about Henrietta. A feverish chill radiated down her arms to her restless, sweaty hands. By the end of the day, she would have nothing left but her mother’s brooch. Not a single person she could call friend or family. Her throat tightened. She forced herself to speak. Better to own her shame than to be the subject of someone’s gossip. “It’s my fault she won’t be coming. I’m afraid she thinks me no better than Fanny Hill.”

  Mrs. Moskowitz huffed. “Why, are you running a brothel in your spare time?”

  Frances chortled. “What is spare time?”

  “Have you heard about the new brothel on the Road to Bloomingdale? Is it called a brothel when the clientele are women and the prostitutes are men?” Mrs. Medina looked about the room for answers and received owlish stares.

  Frances dissolved into giggles. “Does Mrs. Gittel know?”

  Henrietta couldn’t take it. They were as easily distracted as children. Before anyone answered Frances, she blurted, “Mr. Hardwicke and I were lovers. Sarah and Dr. Nealy witnessed our indiscretion. I’m sure that is why she isn’t here today. It’s my fault. It won’t happen again. Mr. Hardwicke left.” She wove her fingers together and waited for their reprobation while a kick to her heart reminded her how much she missed him.

  Frances sighed. “He’s adorable. Good for you.”

  The baby gurgled in Mrs. Moskowitz’s arms. “So you chose him to marry?”

  She looked up. “No! I don’t wish to marry someone because we were caught. I know what that makes me. No different from Fanny Hill. But I’d rather my morals be loose than never to have something good in my life again. This time, I won’t marry if it’s not for love.”

  “You shouldn’t,” Mrs. Moskowitz said without an ounce of criticism. She looked down at the baby with a pinch of sadness. “Happiness doesn’t come often enough. If we allow pleasure to ruin one woman, it ruins us all. If he makes you happy, shows you respect, to hell with society’s rules. One day, I’ll tell you how I met my husband. That’ll put some pink on your cheeks.”