Rakes and Radishes (9 page)

“Can you describe this sky? I can’t capture it,” he said, his light blue, hooded eyes squinting at the sky.

Henrietta gazed at the coal-ridden clouds being carried by the wind over her head. “It’s a blue that wants to be blue, but can’t be blue because all this gray dust and clouds perpetually block it. It longs just to be blue, but it can’t.”

“It is the confusion that confounds me.”

“Do you sell many paintings?”

This made him laugh, a free, deep belly chuckle. “I’m no artist. No J.M.W. Turner. I hope you don’t think that. My painting is a philosophical exercise.”

“How?”

“Learning to look at the world and let it be. The sky in London is restless and nervous. In Germany, a blue sky breaks forth only in the summer. It is bold, adamant to have its day. In Italy, the blue sky glows vibrant and free over the ocean, refusing to be clouded. And the blue sky is endless in the Americas, as if there was nowhere else in the world.”

“You’ve painted all those skies?”

“Poorly, yes.”

Henrietta looked closely at his weather-beaten face. He was quite handsome, actually, and younger than she had assumed. Despite the wild mass of white hair on his head and graying beard, his body was robust and wiry.

“Where have you been?” he asked. “Where has Lady Kesseley taken you?”

She stiffened. Had she said Lady Kesseley’s name? “Nowhere. I’m actually her neighbor,” she said cautiously.

“Near Wrenthorpe?”

She didn’t reply.

The philosopher didn’t seem to notice. He looked away from her, down at the water where Samuel prowled about the shore, barking at the two male swans squawking and hissing at each other.

“Is Lady Kesseley, is she—” He paused, considering his words. “Is she very happy?”

Henrietta returned the teacup. “Thank you for the chocolate, but I have to go.”

“Of course,” he replied. “I hear the snap of societal rules like twigs under our feet.”

***

Samuel seemed more sedate on the way home, his head bowed, somehow sensing that at any moment, Henrietta might break down in the street, weeping to the girl selling oranges.

Everything was lost. She had to go home. No one wanted her in London. But someone most certainly wanted Henrietta at home—to be his wife. Now it loomed like some inevitable fate.

How could she marry Mr. Van Heerlen knowing the heady excitement of losing herself in Edward’s lips, drifting in his arms, coming the closest to perfect she had ever been? Did she have to pretend for the rest of her life that Mr. Van Heerlen’s kisses fulfilled her? Could she pretend love in the intimacy of their marriage bed? Ladies had for years. Perhaps men were easily deceived, but she couldn’t see how. Kesseley would never be so naive.

For several minutes, she stood outside the house on Curzon Street, trying to get the courage to walk back into the disaster. Perhaps Kesseley and his mama were away, and she could make a beeline for her chamber without having to talk with anyone.

Unfortunately, Lady Kesseley stood in the hall, waiting, as if she had seen Henrietta coming.

“Miss Watson, when I said you could go to the park, I did not mean alone! This is not Norfolk. There are dangerous men in the park who could—”

Henrietta held up her hand, stopping her. “I’m going home. Tomorrow. I won’t be in the way anymore. I’m sorry for everything. P-please have Boxly arrange a post.” Typically Henrietta would have been horrified to break down in tears before Lady Kesseley, but by this point, she had no pride left and just trudged up the stairs, letting the tears trickle down like rain.

Samuel followed her. And when she fell on her little alcove bed, he crawled in beside her, causing the bed to sag. He licked her face, making hurt, whimpering dog sounds. She hugged the old hound, crying into his brown fur until she finally found the sweet refuge of sleep.

***

Kesseley walked down to New Bond Street, his body a boiling stew of anger, frustration, hurt and other emotions he couldn’t separate. How could he have been so stupid, so foolish, so blind?

What magic did she have over him? This was beyond hope. Henrietta was an obsession he was powerless against. Perhaps he was like his father in that respect, even though it pained him to admit he shared anything in common with that monster. Except, unlike his father’s dissipation, Kesseley’s pursuits and habits only hurt himself.

So Kesseley was headed to Boodles, if just to sit there and keep himself safe from her.

Activity pulsed about him on the streets. Everywhere people crammed together, yet strangely solitary, rarely acknowledging each other as they hurried on. Barefooted children darted through the crowds, dogs at their heels. Over them all, the bell of the muffin man rang out, and the coarse voices of the pie vendors sang out their offerings Kesseley had always hated London, but today, the city felt as if it folded him into its dark, filthy arms.

To spite Henrietta, he veered off onto Cork Street and glanced in the window of Schweitzer and Davidson. A gaggle of dandies lounged inside. Was this what she wanted? Some thoughtless tulip who cared more for the lay of his coat than the ragged child crouched on the pavement under the window?

He reached into his pocket and gave the poor waif a coin.

To hell with her.

Thoughts in this vein kept him occupied all the way down St. James to the great white bay window of Boodle’s.

The door swung open, and two fashionably dressed bucks leaped onto the pavement, each holding ducks, their faces alight with secretive mischievousness. Tucking the ducks under their coats, they ran down the street on a seemingly urgent mission. Kesseley watched them leave, then stepped inside.

The porter leaped from around his desk and grabbed Kesseley’s arm. “Deliveries are made in the back!” He spun Kesseley around to the door.

“Wait!” Kesseley dug in his heels, refusing to be moved. The porter’s face flushed with panic. He snapped his fingers three times, and his menacing, overgrown assistant appeared from behind a false door.

“You need some help?” the assistant growled.

Just then a tall, gawky fellow with bright red hair and freckles ran into the entrance hall, a duck tucked in the crook of his elbow. Ronald Buckweathers! Kesseley’s old mate from Trinity.

Bucky stopped when he saw his old friend, that toothy good-for-nothing smile Kesseley remembered spreading across his thin face.

“Well, hell’s tinker. It’s about time you darkened these doors. Here, hold this, good man.” Bucky shoved his duck into the assistant’s big hands. Then he gave Kesseley a big, back slapping embrace that turned into a brotherly sort of wrestling match causing them to collide with a portly gentleman who had just entered the club.

“Buckweathers! Contain yourself,” the man barked. “Does your uncle know you are here?”

Bucky bowed, then rose quickly, giving Kesseley a sly punch on the shoulder. “Your Grace, this is my old chum from Cambridge. The Earl of Kesseley. I sponsored him here two years ago.”

Kesseley bowed politely to the unknown duke. He was a pudgy fellow, his broad cloth coat barely able to cover his protruding belly. His face was schooled in a sour expression, but there was a bright twinkle in his eyes.

The flustered porter bowed like one of those prostrate holy men in the east. “Your Grace, my profuse apologies.” Then he turned to Kesseley and Buckweathers and said, “Perhaps I can show you to the undress dining room—”

The corpulent duke huffed indignantly. “Don’t put Lord Kesseley in the dirty room! What are you thinking, man?” He put his chubby arm possessively around Kesseley, as if to draw him into his confidence. “I’m expanding my hops, you see. Been wanting to talk to you. I’ve read your articles in the
Journal of Agriculture.
Impressive. Very impressive. You have a fine mind.”

“Pardon?” Kesseley said, unsure of the identity of his new friend.

“Houghton, the Duke of Houghton,” he said brusquely as an army of waiters hustled in, all donned in matching black breeches and coats. They made quick work of removing coats, hats and gloves. His Grace kept on talking about swine through the process.

Kesseley asked the duke several basic questions about curing methods and feed composition, trying to get an understanding of the duke’s spread as the porter led them up the grand stone staircase, past the paintings of old race horses. The duke kept a hand behind Kesseley’s neck, holding him captive, while Buckweathers tagged behind.

They passed into the salon, a grand room, over a story high with ornate pilasters lining the buff walls. Above them, paintings of scantily clad Grecian beauties looked down from the molded ceiling. By the dark marble fireplace, a young buck stood on a chair, holding a large leather-bound book and a ridiculous peacock’s plume. Below him, young bloods in handsome coats and shiny boots bounced about like excited little girls, waving their arms in the air, shouting numbers. “I’ve got Sir Giles stealing her at one thousand,” one voice rung above the others.

“I believe this is about your daughter, Lady Sara, Your Grace,” Buckweathers said.

“I wish one of them would steal her,” Houghton replied, then lifted a bushy brow in Kesseley’s direction. “You wouldn’t want to marry my daughter?”

Kesseley opened his mouth to reply, but the Houghton waved his hand, silencing him. “No, it won’t take. She don’t like men with sense. I’m destined to support a worthless poet.”

They entered the oval dining room lined with gilt mirrors and girandoles. Only a few tables were occupied in the late morning. The porter selected a gleaming round mahogany table, and the footmen ran forward with linens and tea.

The porter bowed again before Houghton. “Your Grace, what would be your pleasure—”

“Beefsteak, we all want beefsteak and ale.” The duke ordered for everyone.

“Very good,” the porter agreed and left to pass along the gentlemen’s order.

Someone in the salon raised the stakes to five thousand for Lady Sara’s hand, and a great cheer went up and echoed in the dining room. The duke shook his head.

“Why don’t you just tell her she can’t marry that poet?” Buckweathers suggested.

“Lady Sara is as clever as her mama,” the duke said. “You try to talk to them, they smile all prettily.
Yes, Papa. Whatever you say, Papa.
Then run off with a poet. Right now, my daughter is in the park with her
dearest friends.
” He let out a disbelieving snort, then leaned forward, tapping his temple. “I’ll tell you what it is. We’ve found that Fairfax lady’s novels hidden in her room. Never let your ladies read gothic novels. It gives them strange ideas.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Kesseley said wholeheartedly.

The duke squinted at Kesseley, assessing him. “I like you,” he said finally. “You’re not one of those fops, like that poet gentleman. Can’t stand them.”

Tea arrived. Houghton sat back in his chair and tapped his knee. “I’ve got about a hundred swine, and I’m looking to expand one hundred more. I would value your expertise.”

So three hours were consumed on the merits of different breeds of swine, another two across the street at Brooks’s discussing barn and chute designs, then three more hours over dinner at White’s on the scientific theories of curing and transporting pig parts. Dusk encroached outside the large window of White’s when the duke stood to take his leave of Kesseley and Buckweathers.

“Are you going to Lady Huntly’s ball this evening?” he asked Kesseley, pulling his vest down over his belly.

“Yes, I think my mother mentioned it.”

“Good. I’ll be there. I’ll make sure Lady Sara wears her prettiest gown,” he said and parted, nodding to his acquaintances as he quitted the room.

Bucky’s face turned pink under his freckles, and he bit his lips to keep from bursting until the duke was out of earshot.

“Kesseley, you are the luckiest damn fellow in London.”

He shrugged. “I would be interested to see his hops plan in manifest. It’s hard to say how it will work without actually seeing his estate.”

“Of course, you’ll see it! Because he’ll be your father-in-law! I can’t believe he straight up asked if you would marry his daughter.”

“He didn’t mean it.”

“Hell, he did!”

“I can assure you, of all the ladies in London, I am not interested in Lady Sara.”

“How can you say that? She’s rich, respectable and more beautiful than any actress or ballet dancer or courtesan in England. I bet there ain’t an eligible man in here that ain’t in love with her.”

Kesseley swirled the port in his glass. “I’ve never seen Lady Sara.”

A dangerous sparkle entered Buckweathers’s eye, the look of a betting man. “If my uncle wouldn’t find out and stop my allowance, I would lay down a wager in White’s betting book right now that you will be changing your tune after tonight.”

Kesseley believed that Lady Huntly had managed to squeeze the entirety of fashionable London into their ballroom. Golden fires roared in four fireplaces and hundreds of candles hung in three expansive chandeliers. Their light caught in the mirrors running along the walls, reflected back, multiplied. The place was brighter than heaven and hotter than hell. Beneath his coat, sticky sweat soaked his shirt.

He watched the delicate, fairylike ladies spinning on the dance floor. All around him conversation buzzed. How elegant Miss So-and-So looked, did she not have seven thousand pounds? Isn’t Lady So-and-So a graceful dancer, how beautiful she looks in lavender.

There were so many pretty girls here. He tried to catch their eyes and give them a little would-you-care-to-dance smile, but they always looked away. So he stood, rubbing his nervous, wet palms on his knee britches.

This was no way to get a wife.

He wished Henrietta were here.

You’re supposed to forget about that senseless, cruel, crack-brained girl!

This thought propelled him forward, pushing through the crowd to an unoccupied sweet little thing with delicate pink flowers in her curly brown hair and a spray of freckles across her face. Her eyes widened as he approached, smiling. She quickly turned and disappeared down a rabbit hole of arms and elbows. He felt stupid. What the hell was wrong with him?

Kesseley spotted his mama across the room, by a mantel under a portrait of the Duke of Wellington’s horse. She was conversing with a trim man with a rugged face and sandy hair streaked with silver. The gentleman gazed at her lips as she spoke, and an appreciative glow burned in his hooded eyes. Then, in plain view of the ballroom, he brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. The edge of his mouth hiked into a smirking smile. It was going to be terrible to have to scatter the blackguard’s brains all over the nice floor, Kesseley thought, feeling his hands ball into fists. Then his mother shook her head, turned and walked out of the room, leaving the fool standing awkwardly alone.

“Kesseley, my boy! I found you!”

He turned on his heel.

Houghton’s rotund body pushed through the crowd, parting guests like the seas. He pulled a female by the wrist behind him. Kesseley could just see the daisies entwined about her white-blond curls. “May I introduce my daughter, Lady Sara.” The duke’s voice was breathless from exertion.

The blonde lifted her doll-like face and gazed at Kesseley with eyes the color of blue swallowtail butterflies. A soft giggle escaped her pale pink lips, revealing even white teeth that glinted in the candlelight.

“Kesseley knows all about pigs, my dear.”
Couldn’t Houghton have said something else?

“Do you?” she said, her eyes widening. “How good for us, Papa!” She touched her papa’s coat. Not immune to his own daughter’s charm, he blushed to the top of his bald head. She took a timid step toward Kesseley. “I think pigs are so adorable with their little curly tails. I just adore animals. Don’t you? When I was young, I was forever being pulled from the stables.”

Dear God.

He knew this little beauty could save his life. Finally release Henrietta’s hold over him. The hopelessness that had been dragging on his heart suddenly lightened. He could imagine Lady Sara’s sweet face in his rose garden, their children at her feet, all curly blond angels like their mama.

The music ended, and the dancers began to leave the floor, making way for new couples. The conductor called down from his platform, “The waltz!”

“Well, well.” Houghton jerked his head toward his daughter, a subtle hint to Kesseley.

“L-Lady Sara, would you like to dance w-with me?” Kesseley stammered.

Her face lit with alarm and she pressed her hand to her trembling mouth. For a moment he thought she would swoon or burst into tears. “Oh no! I’ve already promised this dance.” In a small movement, she reached into the crowd and plucked out a freckled brunette by the sleeve of her pink gown. “Perhaps Miss Barten can dance with you, my lord.”

Lady Sara kissed her friend’s cheek. “Oh the worst thing, dearest. I can’t dance with Lord Kesseley, for I am already taken.”

“I—” the girl began to protest.

“Lord Kesseley, I assure you that my
dearest
friend, Miss Barten, is an excellent dancing partner.”

Kesseley bowed to Miss Barten. “May I have the pleasure of this dance?”

Lady Sara nudged her freckled friend while continuing to smile at Kesseley, a beautiful, enchanting, hypnotic thing. “Yes, thank you, I would be honored,” the friend said flatly, shooting Lady Sara an angry look, thus proving herself to be inferior to Lady Sara in disposition, as well as beauty.

Lady Sara let out a deep sigh, causing her breasts to rub together.
Stop staring at her breasts!

“Lord Kesseley! You’ve finally come to this den of vice.”

Kesseley knew that voice. It grated at his very soul. Edward! The fop swept in, looking ridiculous as ever, his silly curls dancing about his face. He gave Kesseley a breezy smile that Kesseley had seen him practice in the mirror as he repaired his cravat at the Spring Assembly. “I heard you were here, but wouldn’t believe it until I saw it myself. I never thought you could pull yourself from your muddy fields long enough to enjoy the finer pleasures of London.” He let out an expansive laugh, the kind meant to encourage others to join in. Only Lady Sara did.

“Mr. Watson, Lord Kesseley has asked me to dance, but I have already promised this dance to you.”

“Lord Kesseley, you must be faster, for these London ladies are light-footed.” He laughed at his witticism and whisked Lady Sara away.

Killing Edward would never achieve his purposes. It would only cause Edward a few minutes of distress. Kesseley marveled that Edward could even be a poet. His soul had no substance, knew no hardship. And the world showed no inclination to give him any.

Lord Kesseley led his freckled dancing partner onto the floor. They both stood, hands clasped, waiting on the orchestra. He looked over Edward’s back at Lady Sara. A shy, expectant smile waited on her lips. Edward inclined his head, whispering into her ear She giggled, flashing a quick peek at Kesseley as the music started.

Kesseley stepped forward, crunching down on Miss Barten’s instep. She shrieked in pain, reaching for her poor foot.

“Are you well?” he cried. He bent to assist her, but instead slammed his head into hers. She wailed again.

Everyone was staring. Other twirling dancers bumped into them, sending them tumbling together. He tried pulling her to safety, but she pushed him away and limped back to the wall, sobbing. He followed, repeating his apologies and inquiring if he could carry her, take her arm, get a refreshment, find a physician. Several young ladies came forward, taking their wounded sister into their arms and circling her like a protective herd against a predator.

Kesseley felt the sweat pouring under his cravat amid the whispers and discreetly pointing fingers.

Again he inquired if he could help Miss Barten.

“Haven’t you done enough?” called an anonymous female voice from the crowd lining the wall.

Kesseley bowed, then bowed again and again before slinking out of the ballroom.
Stupid, big, stupid Ajax. No wonder Edward gets all your women.

He poked his head into different parlors, not seeing his mother anywhere. Finally, he found a large, spreading fern near a refreshment table by the servant passage and hid himself behind its long palms.

He remained there, coming out only to look for his mother in the open parlors, packed with perspiring people fleeing the ballroom in search of cool air and audible conversation. He could see their elbows nudging each other, as if to say
look, look, that’s him.
So he retreated back to his palm tree, feeling like a dolt as he watched the clock hands tick around the numbers.

To hell with this!
He was going home.

Tinkling female laughter trickled in from beyond the opened door. Instinctively, Kesseley withdrew to his palm and hid.

Leaning on Lady Sara, Miss Barten limped into the room. Pain crumpled her freckled features. Around her moved the crowd of young ladies, murmuring comfort.

Shame burned his ears as he watched poor Miss Barten struggle. He wanted to run from the hideout behind his plant, get down on his knees and apologize again. But somehow he felt he wasn’t wanted as the ladies’ eyes surveyed the room, making sure they were alone. When satisfied that no one was within earshot, their shoulders lowered and slumped, their sweet uplifted mouths relaxing to their normal, flat states.

Kesseley was trapped. He crouched lower under the leaves.

Lady Sara spoke first, her sweet voice noticeably sharper, harder than Kesseley remembered. “Do you think your foot shall heal in time for your ball?”

Miss Barten glowered at her friend. “It will swell and turn purple, and I won’t be able to dance with Sir Charles. And it’s all your fault! You made me dance with him!”

“It’s not my fault. I would never step on your toe, dearest,” Lady Sara assured her friend.

“It was that horrid, overgrown country bumpkin!” She looked at the other ladies to make sure they were all in accord with her assessment of Kesseley. They obligingly stated their solidarity.
Horrid. Clumsy Ajax. Clabberfooted. Unhandsome.

“He will ruin my entire Season! My life!” Miss Barten wailed, burying her head in Lady Sara’s shoulder.

“Hardly, dear. Sir Charles must come and comfort your poor swollen foot,” Lady Sara said tartly, smiling in appreciation of her own naughtiness as the others giggled into their hands, their faces pink with pleasure, even as they admonished their friend for saying something so fast.

“Tell her what Mr. Watson compared your ankles to,” one young lady begged Lady Sara.

Kesseley could hear Lady Sara whisper, and the ladies let out squeals of delight.

“Mr. Watson is so romantic. He is just like Lord Blackraven!” one lady said, jumping on her toes and clasping her hands at her heart.

“If Mr. Watson is Lord Blackraven, Lord Kesseley is more like—like Lord Blackraven’s steward or groom,” Miss Barten spat.

“Certainly not his valet,” Lady Sara quipped.

“We shouldn’t speak that way,” said a lone cautious female voice.

“You’re right, of course, for my father says he is England’s authority on pigs,” Lady Sara said.

Wasn’t she the clever girl?

“I have Mr. Watson to save me,” she continued, “but you all must take care to avoid Lord Kesseley, or you may end up a pig farmer’s wife.”

“We can’t avoid him forever. He is an earl. One of us will have to marry him,” the cautious one speculated.

“Let us hope for some witless merchant’s daughter to think he is a prize and save us,” Lady Sara said.

The conversation ended abruptly as the music resumed, and the young men came looking for their partners. The ladies straightened their posture and met their gentlemen with angelic smiles.

Kesseley remained hidden, quiet. All his life, he’d tried to be kind to others, to listen to their lives, their complaints, their pains. He rebuilt their homes, paved their roads, redesigned their canals, dug wells, fed their families. The plundered estate he inherited prospered as it never had before. His tenants were better off than most of England. All he wanted was for someone to love him as he could love her. So he wasn’t the best dresser, perhaps he hadn’t the finest manners and, yes, he did think pigs were a very intelligent, gentle species. Did this hold no value to a lady? He felt like a squashed spider, stepped on merely for the sin of being ugly and humble.

“Tommie, are you in here?” his mother called. He stepped out from behind his palm and let his mama come and wrap him in her arms.

“Let’s leave,” she whispered. He gently kissed her head. The musky scent of another man filled his nose.