When Harry Met Molly

Chapter 37

The mistresses inhaled a collective breath.

“Oh, dear,” murmured Molly. “I believe all my tutoring has been for naught.”

Hildur gave a small roar, held up the scroll, and ripped it down the middle. And then she ripped those pieces again—and again—and stomped on the pieces until they were a pulpy mess.

Why?

Molly had carefully copied the poem in large letters on the scroll, for easier reading. “Let’s go, ladies,” she said. “I sense she’ll need many handlers.”

Onstage Hildur was holding her branch again.

“Hildur,” Molly whispered, and beckoned her offstage. “What will you do now? Do you remember the poem?”

“No,” Hildur said, a sheen of tears in her eyes. “I don’t want Byron’s poem. He’s no good. He loves too many women. So Cook tells me this very morning.”

Athena sighed. “Joan tried to tell you the same thing. Days ago!”

Hildur shrugged. “Captain Arrow is much better than Byron. Captain Arrow likes Icelandic girls.” She smiled. “I have a better plan for tonight.”

“Tell us,” said Athena.

“A story. From my country.” And before any of the mistresses could counsel her further, she approached center stage.

Molly crossed her fingers and hoped for the best as Hildur told the tale in her beautiful, exotic language.

Which no one understood.

Nevertheless, there were highlights. First, her voice carried well, especially when she shrieked. And she was adept at walking like an old woman. And sucking her thumb like a baby. And then somehow she was the old woman spanking the baby, all at the same time.

“She’s, um, quite a versatile actress,” Bunny murmured.

“Either that, or she’s crazy,” Joan said.

Hildur raised her tree branch in the air and roared.

“Crazy,” said Athena, her brow puckering. “Definitely crazy.”

Molly couldn’t help but chuckle. Hildur was her own woman, as the men were discovering.

And while no one understood her story, she certainly deserved points for trying her best.

She said something exuberant in Icelandic, beamed, and threw her arms in the air.

And the men clapped—politely at first, but then they began clapping in time, whistling, and yelling, “Brava! Brava!”

Athena came forward and addressed the audience. “We beg your patience as we take a moment to rest before we begin the last performance of the night—Delilah’s.”

Molly’s relieved and happy mood changed in an instant. Her heart seemed to fall to her feet, and she couldn’t feel her hands or legs anymore, from sheer terror.

She must do her own dramatic reading! Somehow she’d forgotten all about her own performance. She pretended that all was well as the mistresses returned to the dressing area and she told herself she’d practiced her poem several times. And she’d have the book right in front of her, wouldn’t she? She’d simply read the words, read them the way Harry had taught her. And she’d sway as she walked—the way an alluring mistress would.

She’d forget about the long-ago Christmas incident, where she’d read a heartfelt poem and been severely punished as a consequence.

“Where’s my book?” she said, but the excited chatter of the ladies was too loud for anyone to notice what she’d asked.

She tossed aside some of the gowns. “Where is my book?” The other mistresses were finally paying attention. “I left it right here. I’m reading ‘Kubla Khan.’”

“I know,” said Bunny. “It was right here. I saw it before we went to counsel Hildur.”

Everyone looked, but no one found it.

Joan’s eyes widened. “You don’t think Sir Richard—”

“He couldn’t have done it,” Athena said. “He was in the audience.”

“The whole time?” Bunny asked.

“I’ve no idea,” said Molly. “And it got rather prickly there when Hildur, um, expressed her feelings before her performance. Perhaps he slipped away then.”

“And did what with the book?” Bunny’s eyes were wide with worry.

“Most likely destroyed it,” Athena said.

Hildur narrowed her eyes. “I go get him. I find that book! And then I kill him!”

Joan laid a hand on her arm. “I’m sure it’s too late. He probably dumped it in the lake.”

“It’s the only logical conclusion.” Athena sighed.

Bunny shook her head. “I’m so sorry, Delilah.”

“Let’s tell the men,” Joan said. “At the very least, they’ll pummel him. And perhaps there’s a slight chance he still has it on his person.”

Molly looked out over the lake, which shimmered in the moonlight. She heard the murmur of the men’s voices, an occasional chuckle, and swung back around to face the other mistresses. “Sir Richard’s not that stupid. He would have gotten rid of it right away. Joan’s right—he’d have thrown it out there.” She gestured at the lake. “All he had to do was swing his arm, and it would have sailed out far enough that no one would ever know for sure whether he did it.”

All the mistresses sighed.

“What will you do, Delilah?” Bunny laid a hand on her arm.

“I’ll employ the same strategy we used with the gown debacle.” Molly gave her a weak smile. “I’ll outsmart him.”

“How?” Hildur asked, her sky-blue eyes wide with concern.

“I’m not sure yet,” said Molly. She tapped her index finger to her mouth. “The poem was too long—I didn’t even attempt to memorize it.”

“You can read from Tristram Shandy,” offered Bunny.

“Thank you.” Molly smiled. “But that was your reading. I wouldn’t feel right doing the same thing.”

And then she stopped breathing.

The same thing.

She had an idea—a very good one!

If she didn’t lose her nerve.

She blew out an unsteady breath. “I’ll read your poem, Hildur.”

“But Delilah.” Athena gave a light laugh. “She tore it up.”

“I know.” Molly’s heart beat faster. “But it’s not that long, and we went over it so many times, I—I think I can do it.”

She blinked rapidly.

“I know you can,” Bunny said, and gave her a hug.

Hildur patted her on the back. Too hard, of course. Joan fixed one of her stray curls, and Athena squeezed her hand. “Break a leg,” she urged her.

Molly walked briskly to the stage. Alone. Except for a poem inside her that she must get out if she wanted to have any chance to win the Most Delectable Companion contest.

Harry noted, with a sort of wondrous pride, that Molly carried herself with confidence when she entered the makeshift stage, even though—

Good God. Even though the torchlight illuminated a goodly portion of her left breast! And there was another gaping hole in her gown, slightly above her thigh…

No. He wasn’t seeing what he thought he was seeing. It was a trick of the light. Or perhaps it was the brandy.

“God help me,” he muttered. It was bad enough that as she performed tonight, he’d be recalling the morning she’d read ‘Kubla Khan’ in his arms. Now he’d also be dreaming of her in that gown, imagining reaching his hand into one of those holes cut in the fabric and playing with that pert breast and—

He forced himself to stop indulging in such a fantasy. In less than an hour, Molly’s time as his own very delectable companion would be over.

And they would be back to being country neighbors related by marriage.

But he had to give her credit. Without even trying, over this week she’d developed a mistress persona and protected her true identity. That was a marvel in itself. No one had come forward and unmasked her.

She’d managed to preserve the mystery.

Yet she’d also done the opposite. She’d worn her heart on her sleeve, told everyone what she was thinking—most noticeably, about the inequality of the games—and offered her friendship to the whole company.

And in private, she’d held nothing back, either—when they’d kissed and explored each other’s bodies, when she talked about her family and his, and most touching of all, when she’d told him what was in her heart.

Harry sighed. How had she inverted everything he thought he’d known best about women and men and created something…better?

That Molly, he must admit—the generous-hearted, imaginative Molly—was the one who had him and everyone else here ( save Sir Richard) wrapped around her little finger.

“Hello,” she said, and made a small arc with her right hand.

“Hello,” Harry and the other men said back.

There was a long silence.

There she stood, wringing her hands and staring out at her small but captive audience. Harry smiled encouragingly at her, but she seemed distracted. Unfocused.

Almost bleak.

“You can do it.” He willed her under his breath to remember the morning they’d looked out her bedchamber window and pretended that Xanadu was just through the woods.

He saw her visibly inhale and exhale.

What was wrong, exactly? Something seemed off…missing.

Wait—

Where was her copy of “Kubla Khan”? There was no way she could have memorized it! It was much too long, and she hadn’t had time—

Harry half leaped up from the picnic cloth. “Delilah!” he whispered loudly.

It was a question of sorts. But how would she answer it?

She looked directly at him, then said with a surety that stunned him, “‘When We Two Parted,’ by Lord Byron.”

Harry sensed immediately that the steely way she eyed him was her way of telling him to sit down—

Behave—

And believe.

In her.

Slowly, he sank back down to the ground, worried. Not so much about losing the competition. He was more concerned about Molly’s own state of mind. Ever since the Christmas incident, she hadn’t been able to speak in public.

So why was she changing course? Putting herself in what for her must be a terrifying position?

He didn’t know. But he certainly couldn’t ask her now.

She folded her hands in front of her and looked out over the men’s heads toward the lake and the moon, where it had risen over the opposite shore.

“‘When we two parted,’” she began. “‘In silence and tears…’”

Her voice quavered—not a good start for her—and Harry’s stomach clenched. But he forced himself to smile at her in support.

“‘Half broken-hearted,’” she said. “‘To sever for years…’” She didn’t seem to notice him or anyone else at all.

“‘Pale grew thy cheek and cold,’” she struggled on. “‘Colder than thy kiss.’”

She was twisting her hands now, and he began to sweat. But then she took a breath: “‘Truly that hour foretold sorrow to this.’”

Thank God. She’d made it through a whole verse, with little pause. Harry forced himself to sprawl on the blanket and listen to her start the next verse as if he hadn’t a care in the world. But he was seriously agitated. She might know the words, but she must relax more—put more feeling into the lines—if she were to charm his fellow Impossible Bachelors.

Then again, this particular poem wasn’t one he’d have chosen to charm anyone, especially careless gentlemen. It was sad, after all. About two lovers parting ways—

Harry closed his eyes. Tried not to think.

Oh, God.

Two lovers.

Parting ways.

“‘The dew of the morning,’” she said with more strength now. “‘Sunk chill on my brow. It felt like a warning of what I feel now.’”

When he opened his eyes again, she was looking directly at him. Not at the lake. Not at anyone else. And it was as if she’d woken from a long slumber. Her eyes were expressive now, not distant. And her mouth, too. It was soft. Vulnerable.

By God, the words tumbled out of her, one by one, monuments each to something big and true and…aching inside of her. Harry couldn’t stop listening, as much as he wanted to. And neither, apparently, could the other bachelors.

There was another verse—and more agonizing truth spilling from her whole being. She was talking about him, wasn’t she? About loving him. And having to separate from him.

Him.

Harry swallowed hard. He saw Arrow cast a glance in his direction. And then Lumley and Maxwell and Bell. He sensed the mistresses were probably staring at him, as well.

“‘In secret we met—’” Molly said, as earnest and open as a flower. “‘In silence I grieve, that thy heart could forget, thy spirit deceive.’”

A gust of wind blew off the lake and shook the torch flames.

Molly was looking at her entire audience now. And it seemed as if it were composed of more than the bachelors and the mistresses…it was the very stars and moon above her head. The trees leaning in. The crickets chirping softly in time with the cadence of her words.

“‘If I should meet thee, After long years.’” She swallowed hard. “‘How should I greet thee?’”

“‘With silence,’” she eventually whispered, “‘and tears.’”

Harry couldn’t move, even as the other bachelors began clapping for Molly—all of them but Sir Richard, of course. He sat sulking.

“She’s something,” Lumley called to Harry above the sound of the clapping and whistling.

“You’re a lucky man,” Arrow leaned over to say.

“I know it.” Harry could barely utter the words.

He tensed his jaw to keep from showing any emotion. He felt too many. And they threatened to overwhelm him. So he began to clap—

For Molly.

When she finally looked up from her slippers, out at him and the other Impossible Bachelors, a soft smile played about her lips. A smile of triumph, of pride.

Not of sorrow.

The other mistresses came and hugged her close.

“We did it,” Harry heard Molly say to them. “We all did it.”

And they all began to laugh and talk at once.

They don’t need us as much as we need them. Prinny’s words echoed in Harry’s mind as he uncorked his flask and found it empty.

Lumley tossed him his.

“Thanks.” The brandy burned a hot trail down Harry’s throat, and he wiped his mouth. “Let’s get the votes counted,” he said perfunctorily and tossed the flask back to Lumley.

Harry decided then and there he wouldn’t try to understand. Anything. He simply needed to make it through this night. And get back to the life he had before this week began—a life that seemed far away and rather pathetic, but was most certainly easier to live.