Rakes and Radishes (6 page)

“Yes?”

The servant had returned with a fresh pitcher of water. Behind her, the male servant from the courtyard had Henrietta’s trunk hoisted on his back. He dumped the trunk on the floor, then staggered out, red-faced, taking deep heaving breaths. After the maid had poured water into Henrietta’s washbowl, she knelt beside the trunk and began removing Henrietta’s belongings.

Across the wall, she heard the
thlunck
of Kesseley stepping into water. He let out a deep “Ahhhh.” In her mind flashed an image of his strong chest sinking into the water.

Henrietta thanked the servant and snatched her lap desk from her trunk, stuffed her letter and
The Secret Suitor
inside it, then hurried downstairs. Let the servant put her clothes and belongings where she may. Henrietta could straighten it out later. She just had to get away from the sounds of Kesseley bathing.

Back on the first floor, she cautiously opened the door to a sunshine-yellow parlor with a magnificent vaulted ceiling. An expansive unlit chandelier hung down. The crystals caught the light streaming from long arched windows, breaking up the colors and casting small rainbows about the room.

She took a dainty rosewood chair by the windows and drew her little scuffed desktop onto her lap.

She had to get a wife for Kesseley, if just to get rid of these strange feelings. She loved Edward, after all, the poet who composed love sonnets. Not Kesseley, whose idea of fine art was commissioning portraits of his favorite dogs.

And Edward had a London house, as well, she reminded herself. He might be there this very moment.

With Lady Sara.

Ugh. Henrietta opened her desk and set to work on her project to transform Kesseley.

***

Kesseley stood, bathed and shaven, in fresh pantaloons and shirt, gazing out the window onto Curzon Street. He could not see a single tree, just stone, iron, cobble and a maid twirling a mop outside her employer’s door. The air was acrid, choked with coal, sticking deep in his throat.

He turned and studied his father’s old chamber, crammed with opulence. Red carpets, glossy mahogany furniture, art hanging on every available space of wall. All this, Kesseley thought, while he drove his tenants to poverty and scoured his soil. It had taken Kesseley eight years to put to rights the rundown estate he’d inherited. Just now he could walk through Wrenthorpe at ease, not having some awful memory sneak up on him. Yet here, his father was all about him, thick in the air.

He would have called the carriage to take him back to Norfolk if it weren’t for Henrietta. She adored London. He wanted to believe the lies he’d told his mother, that he no longer held any romantic feelings for Henrietta, that he was merely helping her escape an unwanted suitor. But each touch or small smile electrified his body.

She had to feel same attraction, he was sure of it. What else could explain the shiver he had felt run through her body when she kissed him? The nervous flutter when he mentioned his room was next door?

He turned and stared at their adjoining wall. A small hope began stirring in his heart once more.

Kesseley’s valet, Baggot, came in holding a forest-green coat in his one arm. Baggot had been Kesseley’s most reliable groomsman until an accident hitching a carriage severed his arm. “I noticed all the gentlemen fellers wearing yeller here, so I chose this nice dandylike yeller coat. Then you’ll look as fine as them all,” he assured Kesseley.

Kesseley sucked in a breath, bracing himself to make another vain attempt. “That coat is green.”

Baggot scrunched his face, his bottom lip hanging loose in confusion. “That coat is as yeller as the day I was born. Ain’t I the valet?”

Kesseley sighed. It was useless. There were only so many times he could explain John Dalton’s theory of color perception deficiencies to Baggot. Perhaps it was best to let the valet remain in his blissfully ignorant yellow world.

“Yes, you are the valet. Please help me with the
yellow
jacket.” Kesseley poked his arms into the sleeves and Baggot tugged with his one arm until most of the wrinkles were removed.

Kesseley came down to the parlor. The tension between the two women hit him like a fist. His mother was busy at her bureau desk, addressing letters. Henrietta sat by the front windows, writing on her lap desk.

She raised her head and smiled at him. However, it was his mother who spoke. “I don’t know why I bothered writing instructions to the journals. They all posted our arrival a week early. Look at all these invitations. Was everyone waiting with their pens like the start line at Newmarket?”

Before her lay two piles of letters, one considerably higher than the other. He reached for the top letter of larger pile. “That’s an invitation to an exceptional ball tomorrow night at Lady Huntly’s,” his mother said. “Her niece is making her debut this year. She has a 10,000 pound dowry and an easy, quiet temperament. It is said she sings and arranges flowers well. The following night, we shall go to Lord and Lady Dougherty’s ball. This is their daughter’s second Season, but I understand she expected an offer from Mr. Yarrow before his tragic hunting accident, so we can’t hold that last Season against her. That leaves Wednesday night open, perhaps for Almack’s or the opera.”

“Almack’s!” Henrietta exclaimed from across the room.

“Lord save us,” his mother muttered.

Couldn’t she be nicer to Henrietta?

He pulled up a chair next to Henrietta. On the top of her lap desk rested a sketch. Before looking carefully, he said, “How nice,” trying to compensate for his mother’s simmering hostility.

***

Henrietta cut her gaze to his mother, and then held out the drawing. Kesseley swallowed. On the page was a flat rendition of the street outside that would make a draftsman shudder. On the sidewalk, she had drawn two finely detailed dandies like scientific dissections, lines pointing to their jackets, pants, boots, hats, with detailed descriptions of color, length and cut. She had even written the name of the cravats. Kesseley stared feeling his heart sink. For a few hours, he’d thought Henrietta had forgotten about her little charade. But he was wrong.

“You can take that to Schweitzer and Davidson,” she assured him.

“Thank you,” Kesseley responded, setting the drawing on the side table.

She opened her lap desk and drew out a tin box and a book that was covered in white cloth and embroidered with ivy leaves. “This is for you,” she said. “It’s the diary I made for you and some other things that I thought might help you.”

He opened the box and found a stack of clippings. He picked up the top one and held it to the light. It was an illustration of a fop in a blue coat with ridiculously padded shoulders. His father would have worn such an atrocity.

“I think a blue-gray coat like the one in the picture would match your eyes nicely,” she said.

Kesseley yanked at his cravat. “I have to get out of here!”

His mother’s head shot up.

“I’m sorry, what did I say?” Henrietta asked, alarmed.

“I mean, I would like to go to the park and have a nice stroll,” he said, trying to smooth over his outburst. “Let’s all go to the park.”

Henrietta observed a bank of dense, gray clouds building to the west. The air was growing sticky. By evening it would rain. But for now, she and the throng of people passing through the iron gate at Hyde Corner were optimistic the sky would hold if just for one fashionable hour.

She had never seen so many smart people in one place, except in the pages of magazines, and they weren’t real. Promenade and walking dresses in sheer muslin, flounced with dainty lace and lined with rich sarsenet. Imagine actually owning gowns exclusively for walking in the park, Henrietta thought, as she looked down at the white muslin gown she had worn both to the parson’s for dinner and church. How fine the expensive fabric had seemed when she bought it in Ely. She had run her fingers over the thin, almost translucent muslin, imagining the gown she would create, thinking how fashionable she would be. Yet here it seemed so commonplace. Forgettable. She was just an ordinary bluebell in a large, exotic flower garden.

Even the men were beautiful. Shining Hessians, tight doeskins, cravats in all sorts of elaborate knots, and carefree curls that seemed to tumble into just the right spot on their forehead. They strolled in smooth motions, their eyes half shut as if bored by the scene.

Kesseley seemed so out of place, a walking, unmatched mass of wrinkled fabric and wild hair. Like a tall seedling weed rising above the flowers, begging for the gardener’s sickle.

Three rather goggled-eyed and homely young misses burst into giggles upon passing him. Henrietta reeled around, a primitive, protective instinct burning in her breast. One clever girl was discreetly pointing to a grass stain stretching across Kesseley’s thigh while her friends laughed behind their hands.

Some inner feline sharpened its claws. She restrained herself from pulling every little silk bow and bead from the ladies’ fine pelisses.

But another sight stole the girls’ attention, causing them to release a collective gasp. A handsome buck cantered along the fence separating the riders from walkers.

Henrietta’s heart squeezed shut. Everything vanished from her thoughts—the goggle-eyed girls, Kesseley and his mother—everything but the graceful rider.

Edward.

His beautiful face shined out from all the other faces. Even from a few feet away, she could see the sparkling glint in his eyes. He tilted his face to the sun, letting the wind tousle the curls peeping below his curled hat.

Did he not see her? Could he not feel her? She stepped forward to follow Edward’s progress and inadvertently brushed against Kesseley.

“Pardon,” she murmured.

He looked down and smiled, clearly innocent of Edward’s presence.

Up ahead, Edward had caught up to a diminutive chestnut horse holding an elegant lady clad in cornflower blue. Henrietta could not see the rider’s face, only the ridiculous daisies poking out of her bonnet. He tipped his hat to the lady, that beautiful, almost crooked grin curling his lips.

Henrietta closed her eyes and bit down on the soft skin of her lower lip, hoping the pain would keep the tears away. That smile belonged to her. He was hers.

***

When she opened her eyes again, two big white horses’ mouths were shoved in her face, lips open, displaying square yellow teeth. Henrietta jumped back.

The matching bays drew a curricle containing two of the most exotic women Henrietta had ever seen. She could only stare.

They had the contradictory appearance of being at one time older and younger than they were. Their rosy cheeks and lips belied a hint of wrinkles about the corners of their eyes.

A dark brunette held the reins in her slender fingers. Large glossy curls framed her fine-boned face. The lady’s almond eyes were a brilliant copper.

The other possessed the blondest hair Henrietta had ever seen, like pure white silken threads. She made little kisses with her voluptuous lips. “Eleanora,
ma chère amie est ici
and with
petit
Tommie.” She spoke her broken French and English with a thick Germanic accent.

The darker lady waved her long, gloved hand, clanging the jeweled bracelets on her wrists. “Hello, darlings! We have been such good girls, scouring London looking for brides.” She had a low, breathy voice.

“We make a list for you.” The blonde shoved her hand in her down bodice, patting about her expansive bosom. “Oh no, where did I put it?” She checked the other breast. “Voila!” She pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper and leaned over the carriage’s edge, presenting it to Lady Kesseley.

Kesseley laughed. It struck Henrietta how at ease he seemed with these fashionable ladies whose bombastic beauty made her feel like a homely country lump. He caught her studying him.

“Your Highness and Lady Winslow, may I present my mother’s companion, Henrietta Watson.”

“A princess!” Henrietta gasped.

“Oui, the queen is ma chère cousine.”

Kesseley knew stunning princesses! Why hadn’t he told her? She thought she knew everything about him, yet here, he was a stranger to her. With Kesseley talking to royalty and her love chasing dainty daisy bonnets about the park, her world was rolling out of its tidy little orbit.

“Curtsey,” Kesseley whispered under his breath.

Oh Lud, in her heartbreak and confusion she had forgotten to curtsey! She made a quick bob, her body burning with embarrassment. Kesseley chuckled at her gauche.

The copper-eyed lady flicked her wrist as if she were already bored with Henrietta. “Tommie, I’m dreadfully sorry but it’s a motley crew of young ladies this year, quite frightful. Freckles and crooked teeth. All dreadfully rich and connected, of course. The only one with any beauty is Lady Sara, and she is chasing this splendidly handsome poet.”

They knew Edward!

“Monsieur Watson is très handsome.”
The princess’s impressive bosom rose in admiration.

“When I saw him, I thought he was poetry himself and ran out for his book,” Lady Winslow said. She coiled a shiny lock around her finger, then let it go. “Horrid stuff, gave me a pounding headache. The physician advised I throw it out because of my particular sensitivities to bad art, else just looking at it might send me into boughs again.”

Lady Kesseley glanced at Henrietta, a tiny smirk hiking the side of her lips.

“Ellie,” the princess said in a sing-song voice. “
Un homme bel t’attend.
He’s come to London just to see you.”

Lady Kesseley took a sharp intake of breath. Lady Winslow rammed her elbow into her blonde friend’s ribs.

“Ouch!”

“A handsome man waits for Mama?” Kesseley lifted a questioning brow at his mother. “Why have I not heard about this suitor? Is he a secret?” he said in mock severity, as he smiled. Lady Kesseley didn’t see any humor. “There isn’t a man waiting for me. The princess is mistaken.”

Her Highness blinked, confusion creasing her forehead. “Pardon. I thought—”

Lady Winslow cleared her throat and touched her blonde friend’s arm. “Oh well, we shall ask around the park for brides,” she said brightly. “Perhaps there is an heiress hiding about.” She kissed her hand and blew it to Lady Kesseley as the carriage jolted forward. “
Au revoir,
my dear, dear darling.”

Kesseley turned to his mother. “Is a man bothering you?” His voice was thick with that savage male protectiveness.

“No.”

“Tell me his name.”

“For God sakes. I’m not like Henrietta. I can take care of myself.” Lady Kesseley darted across the equestrian traffic, causing several horsemen to quickly rein their horses. Then she disappeared into a small path cutting into the heart of the park.

Henrietta’s gaze shot to Kesseley’s face. An unvoiced curse formed on his lips, and he headed off after his mother, apologizing to the inconvenienced riders. Henrietta hurried to catch up.

They found her standing alone beside the Serpentine, looking at her reflection on the water’s surface. The branches of a willow drooped down around her like a leafy picture frame. She made such a lovely, elegant vision that a painter—set up with his easels and paints on the bank a few feet away—stopped in mid-brush stroke to stare.

Kesseley drew his mother to him. “Who is this man? Do I need to kill him?” he asked gently.

“He is no one.” She laughed, a brittle sound, and pulled herself free. “Let’s keep walking.”

Henrietta paused to let them go ahead. She needed space to think about Edward. She looked deep into the water, past her reflection, to the pale fish darting below. A raindrop splashed the water, then another, breaking everything up.

That was Lady Sara in that daisy bonnet. It had to be. At this very moment, she would be near him, trying to find shelter from the coming rain, feeling the giddy excitement of having him close, their hands touching. Did he kiss Lady Sara too? Did he look at her like she was the most precious thing in the world and whisper sonnets in her ear? Henrietta wondered if Lady Sara even knew about her—the one left behind.

How invisible she felt. As if in a dream where her house was on fire, but she was unable to move or scream, helpless as the flames grew. Except in this scenario she never woke, forced to watch some little bonnet spotted with daisies steal her life.

“No, no, don’t leave me, Edward. Don’t leave me like this.”

“Pardon?” the painter said a few feet away. It took a moment to realize she had spoken aloud. Oh Lud! She was as mad as Papa. Quickly she tried to cover her mistake.

“I said, umm, no, don’t
paint
me. Don’t
paint
me like this. That’s what I said.”

His bright eyes regarded her warily as one would a lunatic. “I’m not.”

“Good.”

She lifted her skirt and hurried past his easel, then stopped. For all his soulful artistic demeanor, he was the worst painter she had ever encountered. Blotches and swirls of paint, it could have been any body of water painted by a three-year-old.

A mysterious smile played on his face and he scratched his graying bearded chin. “It’s about color. I am trying to capture the exact color of the water as I see it now. This moment.”

“Oh.”

“After all, all we have are moments. One after the other, ticking by, then all is gone but the memory of how blue the river was one afternoon in the park.”

Henrietta paused. “That makes me sad. Time flying away and only blue left.”

“Perhaps not what you have left. Perhaps all you ever had.”

Her heart swelled with pain. This was all she would ever have? This heartache? The man gazed at her with ancient eyes, compassionate and deep. “I have to go,” she said, but remained still.

He looked at her companions, now waiting in the distance. “They will miss you.”

Henrietta nodded, not speaking, then turned and ran off to catch up with Kesseley and his mother. She took his arm, and they hurried toward the road as drops of rain started pelting down. She glanced over her shoulder as the path turned along a row of oaks. The odd painter stood, unaffected by the rain, watching them.