Ravishing the Heiress

CHAPTER 8

1896

Lavender honey,” read Isabelle from the handwritten label on the glass jar.

“You like honey—if I recall correctly,” said Fitz. “We make this honey at Henley Park. Very good stuff.”

And very beautiful, glowing golden and clear in the gingham-covered jar.

“My goodness, to make lavender honey you must have a whole field of lavender.”

“Acres and acres of it. It’s quite a sight to see, especially after three months in London.” Fitz felt a surge of pride and warmth at the mere thought. He missed it, his corner of the Earth.

“You never told me about those acres and acres of lavender. I thought Henley Park was nothing but a ruin.”

“It was. The lavender fields were started in my tenure—although most of the credit must go to Lady Fitzhugh. She is an indefatigable gardener.”

Isabelle had been holding up the jar of honey, admiring it in the light. She set it down abruptly. “You are giving me something that comes from her garden?”

Her voice was tinged with both suspicion and displeasure—she was reading too much into a simple gift. “Our garden,” he said firmly. “I got the first cuttings from Lady Pryor.”

Isabelle pursed her lips. “That might be even worse, that this comes from something belonging to the both of you.”

“You are taking up with a married man, Isabelle. Much of my life is intertwined with my wife’s.”

“I know that.” She sighed, an exasperated sound. “But the reminder does not really help, does it?”

He’d seen the honey at breakfast, remembered that she enjoyed honey on her toast, and asked his housekeeper whether there were any unopened jars on hand—as simple as that. But nothing, alas, was so straightforward.

“If you don’t care for it, I’ll take it back and find you something you’ll like better.”

“Of course I like it—I adore anything you give me.” Her lips turned down briefly at the corners. “I’m just frustrated that there is so much of your life I do not—and cannot—share.”

“It will change now. My wife and I had nothing in common when we married.” Realizing he hadn’t given the best example, he hastened to add, “It will take time, that’s all. We must catch up on all the years we’ve been apart, and then build something new.”

“You make it sound as if there is a distance between us that needs to be bridged.”

He was taken aback she’d dispute him on this point. “That’s quite inevitable, isn’t it? We have changed. It will take us a while to know each other as we once did.”

“I have not changed.” Her voice turned vehement. “Yes, I have experienced marriage and motherhood. But I remain the same person I have always been. If you knew me then, you should know me now.”

“I do know you, but not as well as I would like to.” He sounded defensive to his own ears.

“Not as well as you know your wife, you mean.”

He wasn’t sure why the conversation kept circling back to his wife. “Certainly I know her daily itinerary as well as I do my own, and I know her character. But she is an opaque one, Lady Fitzhugh; I’m never sure what she is thinking.”

“What about me? Can you tell what I’m thinking?”

He recognized the half-defiant, half-rueful look on her face. She knew she’d overreacted, but wasn’t yet ready to admit her error. He smiled—with relief. “I think you, or part of you at least, would rather we talked about something else instead.”

“Maybe, if I could be assured that your wife hasn’t somehow managed to wedge herself into your heart.”

“The very idea of it is silly. If I love her, then what am I doing here with you?”

His reasoning apparently passed muster. She smiled a little sheepishly. “Shall we talk about a honeymoon of our own? A place to go when your six months have ended.”

“We’d be in the dead of winter, wouldn’t we?”

“Yes,” said Isabelle, her eyes lighting up. “So we should head somewhere warm. The weather in Nice would be perfect. But Nice is so crowded in winter; we won’t wish to bump into everyone. Majorca would be just as lovely—or Ibiza, or even Casablanca.”

An unhappy sensation stole over him. Christmas at Henley Park had become a grand tradition, an extended embrace of family and friends. He did not want to curtail the festivities to head to parts unknown—some of his fondest memories of recent years had come of those gatherings. And he could scarcely stomach the idea of deserting his wife right after Christmas.

Perhaps in his way, he’d become as opaque as his wife. Isabelle chatted avidly on the possibilities—apparently there was a sturdy supply of scenic places on Spain’s Mediterranean coast—not once noticing that his enthusiasm didn’t quite match hers.

But that was all right, he supposed. He had become too comfortable in his existence. All creatures of habit needed to be shaken out of their habits once in a while, so as not to become too rigidly set in their ways. He only wished Isabelle hadn’t thought to make such a major production out of the beginning of their future. He was committing adultery after all, and it seemed that they ought to go about it with more silence and discretion.

Isabelle, however, was Isabelle, exuberant and passionate, full of insuppressible vitality. And why should he begrudge her a little speculation, or a most likely delightful excursion to a place with palm trees and a warm ocean?

If only the thought of Millie spending January alone didn’t distress him so, as if he was about to leave the door of the greenhouse open on the coldest day of the year and would return to find all the carefully nurtured plants inside withered from cruelty and neglect.

Helena could not believe her eyes: Andrew! He stood on the platform of the rail station, waiting, not twenty feet from her.

She sent her maid Susie to buy a paper, and some roasted nuts from street hawkers outside the station. Once she was sure Susie had been swallowed by the crowd, she made her way to Andrew and tapped him on the shoulder.

The ecstatic surprise on his face was almost—almost—worth their long separation.

“Helena,” he said reverently, his quiet voice largely lost in the noise of a busy rail junction.

His coloring was a more diffuse version of hers, his hair ginger, his eyes hazel—it had been one of their earliest topics of conversation, two redheads in families full of raven-haired siblings—hers—and blond cousins—his. He was dimpled, a little rumpled, round-shouldered from all his hours sitting before a desk, and just a hair shorter than her, something he joked about good-naturedly.

Everything he did was good-natured and honest. In a cynical world, he was the rare creature, one of both intelligence and genuine sweetness.

“Andrew.” She longed to take his hands in hers, but she dared not in public. They shook hands instead, holding on to each other’s fingers a second longer than was completely appropriate. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Yes, to Bodley to read some manuscripts.” He’d spent a great deal of time at the Bodleian Library at Oxford even when he’d been a student there. “And you?”

“Venetia is officially returning from her honeymoon today. I thought I’d be on hand to welcome her back to London.”

“How terribly exciting. I haven’t had the chance to congratulate her in person.” He bit the corner of his lips. “But I suppose she wouldn’t really wish to see me anymore.”

“What are you talking about?”

He’d removed his right glove when he’d shaken hands with her. Now he twisted that glove uneasily. “I thought—your brother—you didn’t know?”

“Fitz?” Her heart was already sinking. “What does he have to do with any of this? Please don’t tell me he’d called on you.”

That was the reason Andrew had written her to cry off their affair, citing the perils to her reputation and whatnot.

“He was very kind about it, but he is right, Helena. What we were doing was terribly dangerous. And I’d never be able to live with myself if I damaged your good name.”

So Fitz had known—and Venetia and Millie, too—all this while. If anyone could be said to be the party responsible for the affair, it was her, yet he had chosen to go behind her and speak with Andrew instead. They’d made decisions for her while leaving her in the dark, as if she were a child, when she was barely fifteen minutes younger than Fitz—and to her face they’d pretended nothing was happening, as if one of the most significant choices of her life was but so much rubbish to be swept under the rug.

“My good name, is that all anyone can think of? I thought we’d already agreed that there is more to life than reputation. I thought we’d agreed that happiness was worth a risk or two.”

“I do agree still. But that was before we were found out. Thank goodness it was only your brother. Had it been anyone else—I can’t even conceive of the consequences.”

Damn Hastings. He must have told Fitz after all.

“Do you really not want to see me ever again?”

“Helena.” Andrew’s voice shook just perceptibly. “You know I would give anything to see you, but I promised your brother—”

“Is your promise to him more important than your promises to me?”

Andrew winced. “I—”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Susie coming back. “You will meet me again. Because you will not let me down and you will not leave me without hope.”

She turned and walked away before Susie could come too close.

Only to see Hastings fifteen feet away, an expression of mild interest on his face. He’d seen her and Andrew together. She did not bother coming up with a task, but only told Susie, when the latter reached her, that she was going for a private word with Lord Hastings.

Before she could excoriate him for breaking his word, however, he said, “I didn’t tell Fitz the identity of your lover. In fact, he punched me in the face when he realized that I hadn’t told him everything.”

“Then, who did?”

“Give members of your family some credit. Do you think they do not remember that you were in love with him? Do you believe they cannot put two and two together? And don’t forgot all those love letters that arrived by the bushel from your beloved. They only needed to stumble upon one to learn his identity.”

There had been the one letter she could not account for after her return from America. “Why didn’t they say anything to me?”

“Probably because they knew you wouldn’t listen to reason.”

“That is pure hog swill.”

“Would you have listened to them?”

“They would have tried to persuade me with conventional thinking—not at all the same as reason. Not all of us live by the same logic.”

“Yet you still have to abide by the same set of rules as the rest of them. The consequences won’t be any different for you.”

“You say it as if I don’t know what the consequences are.”

“You know exactly what the consequences are. But you don’t believe they could happen to you.”

“And why should they? I have been rigorously careful.”

“Have you? Three nights at Huntington I observed you come and go from your assignations—you didn’t notice a thing. On the last night, another couple on their secret rendezvous was headed right in your direction. I had to divert them. After that I had no choice but to speak to your family.”

She had not known this, but still her ire rose. “And bilk a kiss from me besides.”

“For someone who deals with writers, you should choose your words with greater care.” He smirked. “I came by my kiss honestly.”

The lecher.

“And how do you like my book? Does it not astound you with its literary finesse?”

“We are talking about smut with dirty drawings.”

“Ah, so you have been reading.”

“I glanced through two pages and that was enough for me.”

He smiled. “It’s that good, eh?”

Her breath caught. “It is a waste of paper. And what are you doing here, anyway?”

“I’ve come to welcome our duchess back to London. She is practically my sister, too. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“Where are you going?” she was not so much curious as suspicious.

“Fitz will be here soon. Martin might know everything that happened in East Anglia before Canute the Great made it a mere fiefdom, but I see he doesn’t have the sense to remove himself and avoid giving the impression that he has come to meet you.”

“He hasn’t. He happens to be on his way to Oxford.”

“All the more reason not to give Fitz the wrong ideas. If there is no misconduct, then you shouldn’t waste people’s suspicion.”

He ambled off, took Andrew by the shoulder, and guided him away.

Fitz arrived at the rail station to find Helena and Hastings standing together, speaking in that particular push-pull rhythm of theirs. Fitz listened to their exchange of mildly veiled insults with his usual amusement—and a twinge of melancholy. It was a testament to Hastings’s skill and determination that Helena, after all these years, still did not realize he was in love with her. But what good was such love, too proud to make itself known?

He wondered whether the same applied to his wife. Once she had her freedom, would she be too timid to pursue her fellow, to whom she’d remained chastely devoted all these years?

An odd thing, his continued anonymity. She did not make her debut until after she was Lady Fitzhugh, so she could not have been acquainted with many young men before she married. In the intervening years, Fitz had met most of the Graveses’ social set and never once had he come across a man who elicited any reaction in her.

“My goodness, Mrs. Englewood!” Hastings cried. “What an adorable coincidence running into you.”

Fitz was jolted out of his reverie. Isabelle, in a promenade dress of black velvet, appeared at Fitz’s elbow. She shook hands warmly with both Hastings and Helena. “Adorable, yes, coincidence, no. Fitz told me that the duchess is due back this afternoon. I am dying to meet her new husband and see her again—as well as the rest of you. How could I pass the opportunity when I know that everyone will be gathered here?”

Everyone, including Millie.

Had she been anyone else, Fitz would have suspected her of trying to usurp Millie’s place. But Isabelle was a creature of impulses, not wiles. There was no malice to her, nor machinations.

All the same, this was ill done of her. Inserting herself openly into a family occasion—she might as well take out a notice in the papers stating their intention to set up a household together. No matter how romantic a reunion of young lovers, he would still be committing adultery and he preferred to do so discreetly, and not give his wife reasons to think she’d been publicly thrown over.

He was not alone in his reaction. Once Helena and Hastings realized that Isabelle had come deliberately and would remain with them, they both glanced toward the gates of the platform: It was only a matter of time before Millie arrived.

And then they both glanced at Fitz with uncertainty—and more than a little anxiety on Helena’s part—trying to gauge his reaction, to determine whether he approved of Isabelle’s action or whether he shared their unease.

Venetia’s train pulled into the station. She and her husband, the Duke of Lexington, stepped down from the duke’s private rail coach. The two had supplied the bulk of the gossip for the early part of the Season, culminating in an elopement that had shocked everyone, members of their families included. Fitz had guessed more of the reasons behind their sudden marriage than most, but still he’d worried, until the couple had come for a quick visit to London not long ago and he’d seen for himself how happy and relaxed Venetia was in her new marriage. They had then returned to the duke’s estate in the country for the rest of their honeymoon and were only now rejoining Society, beginning with the ball in their honor, hosted by Fitz and Millie—the same night they would consummate their marriage.

Only two days away now.

Helena waved. Venetia waved back, all smiles. The crowd hushed—Venetia was the great beauty of their generation and her appearance often caused awed silences. But as she walked arm in arm with her husband toward her family, the gawkers gradually returned to their own concerns.

Her smile faltered as she saw Isabelle. Perhaps her hand tightened on her husband’s arm also, for the duke bent his head toward her. Fitz could not tell what question he asked, but her answer, judging by the movement of her lips, seemed to be, Everything is fine. I’ll tell you more later.

She was warm and gracious as she greeted Isabelle and introduced her husband. They were all old friends. Isabelle and Hastings had pulled many a prank together when the boys visited the Pelham house. She and Helena had always got on well. And Fitz had learned, from a remark Helena let stray years ago, that in the days leading up to his wedding, Venetia had spent many hours holding Isabelle’s hand as the latter wept and raged against the cruelty of fate.

This, then, should have been a more buoyant reunion. But Isabelle alone brought the delight and the vivacity. She was thrilled for Venetia’s match with the duke. She made hearty digs at Hastings for Helena’s continued scorn of him. She could not wait to be more settled so that she could throw a dinner for the old gang.

Everyone else was cordial in their manners, but their smiles reminded Fitz of those one put on when faced with an overly chatty vicar.

“Yes,” said Isabelle, as they walked toward the exit and the carriages that awaited beyond. “I do enjoy it. And did Fitz tell you? He was the one who arranged for the house.”

Swift, inscrutable glances darted Fitz’s way.

“Fitz is terribly modest,” said Venetia. “Not for him to boast what he has done for his friends.”

Isabelle laughed. “Modest, Fitz? When did you become modest? I remember you bragging with the best of them.”

He had, hadn’t he? He’d strutted, too, as young, athletic boys so often did. One could say having his dreams executed before his eyes killed his swagger outright. But the truth was, he’d always admired quiet confidence better than braggadocio and would have moderated his bluster at some point, even if life hadn’t beat him to it.

“Modesty is a more appealing quality in an older gentleman such as myself.”

Isabelle laughed. “Oh, how funny.”

He had meant to poke fun at himself but what he said was not a joke.

“So, my dear Mrs. Englewood, what are your plans now that you are back?” asked Hastings.

“Oh, so many of them.” Isabelle turned her face toward Fitz, her look of anticipation unmistakable.

Hastings tapped his fingers against the handle of his walking stick. Venetia adjusted the angle of her hat. Helena tugged at the brooch at her throat. Isabelle might not recognize the signs but they were uncomfortable, especially his sisters.

“Mrs. Englewood is going to visit her sister in Aberdeen in a day or two,” Fitz said.

“Oh, how delightful,” said Venetia. “Will you stay for a while? Scotland is lovely this time of the year.”

There was hope in her voice.

“No, a week at most. I will visit her for a longer time after the end of the Season but for now I shall miss London too much.” She gazed again at Fitz, not caring that she was essentially flirting—possibly even thrilling to it.

Perhaps Fitz had shot well past modesty into outright prudery. But Isabelle had children and he a wife. They ought to be more circumspect in their public conduct, even if they were only before his family and his most trusted friend.

Then he saw her, Millie, descending from her brougham, looking right and left preparing to cross the street. Her eyes landed on him at the same moment. But the pleasure on her face faded away as she took in the sight of Isabelle walking next to him, comfortably ensconced among members of his family.

In her place.

She blinked a few times, her sweet, delicate face straining for composure. Lowering her head, she turned around and climbed back into the brougham.

It drove away, inconspicuous, one vehicle in a sea of carriages.

Alice was in her usual place on the mantel of Fitz’s study, her eyes closed, her tail curled around her plump little body. The clear glass bell jar that protected her from dust and moisture provided a clue that she’d long ago departed for the hereafter, but she remained so lifelike Millie still expected her to stir and wake up.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere in the house,” came her husband’s voice behind her. “Why didn’t you join us?”

Millie did not immediately turn around. She needed a minute to pull herself together. The sight of the Fitzhugh party coming out from the rail station was still seared in her mind, Isabelle retaking her place as if the past eight years never happened. “You are back early,” she said. “I thought everyone was to take tea at the duke’s house.”

“Everyone includes you and I’ve come to get you.”

He had spoken to her of fairness when she’d have put their pact on a bonfire and burned it. No doubt he was again motivated by his need to restore her to her rightful place. But she wanted to be an inseparable part of his heart, not a consideration for his conscience. “It will be awkward with Mrs. Englewood there.”

“She won’t be there.”

He joined her at the mantel, the shoulder of his day coat speckled with drops of water—it had started to rain as she’d reached home. And then, utterly unexpected: his hand on the small of her back; his lips on her cheek.

The gesture was more familiar than intimate. Still, they did not greet each other this way: nods and smiles, perhaps, but not kisses on the cheek that left an etching of heat upon her skin.

He turned the bell jar a few degrees. “I never asked you, Millie. But why did you have Alice preserved?”

Sometimes Millie forgot that it had been her idea. No, more than her idea: She’d also been the one to engage the services of a taxidermist. “You loved her so much I couldn’t bear to put her underground.”

He was silent, his thumb rubbing against the small plaque that bore Alice’s name.

“Do you miss her still?” she asked.

“Not as much as I used to. And when I do miss her—she was a fixture of my school days, to think of her is to remember what it was like to be seventeen and without a care in the world.”

“You miss your old life.” It was a given, but still she hurt to be reminded of it.

“Doesn’t everyone, from time to time?” He replaced the bell jar and turned toward her. “Ten years from now I’m going to miss my life as it is today, simply because I will never be twenty-seven again. There is always something worth remembering in every stage of the journey.”

“Even in the year you married?”

“Yes.” His expression was—surely she deluded herself—nostalgic. “Demolishing the north wing, for one—that opportunity will not come again. Mrs. Clements telling the colonel to shut up. Our conversation about the commodes with the queen’s portrait inside—still one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard.”

She didn’t know why it should be so, but her eyes tingled with tears. It had been a horrible year, but his words carried a great fondness—for this most arduous time of their life together. As if in looking back, the grief and the anguish had been sifted away, and only the gems remained—moments of camaraderie, memories that shone.

“Of course,” he said, smiling, “how can I forget, your panic over my determination to kill myself with a dummy rifle.”

Her voice caught. “You will never let me live that down, will you?”

“No. I can’t believe it: We never did give you any firearm lessons, did we?”

“There were always more pressing concerns.”

“We’ll do it this year—make you a crack shot in no time.”

“I’m sure the grouse will happily disagree as I miss every last one of them.”

“Grouse isn’t the only thing to shoot. The seasons for partridge and pheasant don’t end until first of February. And that’s plenty of t…”

His voice trailed off.

Understanding came all too swift to Millie, like a tropical sunset that abruptly turned day into night. There was no next year for them. Come January he would go to Mrs. Englewood.

“It’s all right,” she said gamely. “Not all of us are meant to be crack shots.”

He looked at her as if he hadn’t seen her in a very long time. Or perhaps, as if he might never see her again, and must memorize her features one by one.

When he finally spoke, he said, “They are still waiting for us for tea, you and me. Shall we go?”