The Lord I Left Page 13

  He looked at her so softly, his green eyes like a caress. “Why don’t you wish to go to church? What happened?”

  She looked at the floor, ignoring the part of her that again wanted more, more. “Oh, everything and nothing. I won’t bore you with the tale.”

  “It takes very much to bore me, Mrs. Hull. I’m quite dull by nature.”

  “You are very far from dull,” she objected, finally returning his gaze. Her tone sounded a touch more sentimental than she had meant it to.

  “I’m tired,” she added quickly. “I will see you in the morning.”

  He nodded. “I will say my Prayer of Weather before bed and hope we can set back off tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” she said, but she walked up the stairs hoping his Prayer of Weather wouldn’t work. She should be relieved that the weather had calmed, but the lack of snow only heightened her dread.

  She wished the snow might fall indefinitely.

  She wished she could stay here, trapped in this frozen place where her mother lived, where the problems in the house belonged to other people, where she could sip down Henry Evesham’s private words like claret, savoring the complexities of his luminous, dark soul.

  It was restful, to pretend this was her life, this blank canvas suspended in a world with no future and no past.

  It was treasonous to think it, but she never wanted to go home.

  Chapter 19

  Henry tried not to resent Miss Bradley-Hough for not being Alice at supper.

  It was not Miss Bradley-Hough’s fault that, after the short drive to Fleetwend in the morning, he would likely never see Alice again. Nor was it her fault that all he could think about was sneaking away and up to Alice’s rooms to hold her hands and pray with her. (To hold her hands.)

  But he must stay, for he felt his father’s eyes on him, monitoring the currents of potential courtship like a sentry. Dutifully, Henry set out asking his companion questions about her life.

  Miss Bradley-Hough was genuinely lovely. She described with charm and verve her sociable life in Bath, which sounded luxurious and pleasant, if lacking purpose. In turn, he told her of his work investigating vice and doing charity for prostitutes. She was so poised that she almost—almost—succeeded in hiding her alarm behind her gracious manners.

  “Henry is nearly done with his duties to the Lords,” his father interjected. “He will soon move on to other work.”

  Miss Bradley-Hough looked relieved on Henry’s behalf. “You must be ever so eager to leave such unpleasantness behind,” she said with perfect sympathy.

  “No,” he said slowly. “I’ll miss it. I quite like gathering facts, meeting such different people, writing my impressions.”

  In saying it, he realized it was true.

  “But you will return to the church?” she pressed.

  He hesitated. “My plans are as yet undetermined. I hope to expand my charity work to other cities. Make use of my findings. Whether that is through ministry or other means, I have yet to decide.”

  His father glowered at him.

  Henry smiled at Miss Bradley-Hough as though he did not notice. “Whatever work I do, I hope to marry soon, to find a helpmeet eager to undertake it alongside me.”

  Miss Bradley-Hough nodded. “Yes, no doubt such work would be much eased by the help of a woman of noble character and profound faith.” She paused, and smiled at him kindly. “I hope you find her very soon.”

  There was a moment of such perfect understanding between them that he could have kissed her.

  Instead, he smiled back at her with equal warmth. “Indeed. So do I.”

  He glanced at his father, who was furiously carving at his meat, his cheeks nearly purple with anger. Well, he could rage all he liked, but he could not deny that it was clear Miss Bradley-Hough had no intention of marrying Henry.

  As soon as supper was over, he excused himself to take a constitutional outside. He walked under the clear sky thinking of the pleasure of another drive with Alice. One last chance to talk to her. To convince her to come visit his meeting house in London. (To be alone with her, just the two of them, in a space so small he could feel her warmth and hear her breathe.)

  He began to hum that jaunty tune Alice had hummed in the curricle, smiling to himself. He was still humming it when he went inside and stopped in the library, where he had left his Bible. Jonathan was lying on a sofa with a large glass of brandy sitting on his chest.

  He inclined his head, like he wanted to hear Henry better, and let out a shout of laughter so forceful the brandy nearly toppled to the floor.

  (Don’t think unkind—) Miserable drunkard.

  “Where did you learn that tune?” Jonathan asked, taking a sip between chortles.

  Henry snatched his Bible off the table. “Just something Mrs. Hull was humming in the carriage to pass the time.”

  Jonathan snorted. “Ah, of course. I should have guessed.”

  Henry stopped and turned around, furious that Jonathan would speak of Alice in that knowing tone.

  “What does that mean?” he asked sharply.

  Jonathan stretched, looking immensely pleased with himself. “When did she lose her husband, your Mrs. Hull?”

  Henry narrowed his eyes, still not following. “Last autumn, sadly.”

  Jonathan raised a brow. “Ah. I see.”

  “What, exactly, do you see?”

  Jonathan took another sip. Smacked his lips. “Only that it is quite odd, you driving a woman like her alone. Bringing her here.”

  His brother’s speech was slurred and he knew better than to engage with him, but Henry could not seem to hold back. “A woman like what?”

  Jonathan made a lewd gesture. “You’ve always liked the little ones.”

  Henry relaxed. It was just Jonathan trying to rile him, and he would not ruin his evening by allowing himself to be drawn in by veiled accusations that were based in nothing more than his elder brother’s lifelong desire to antagonize him. “A simple act of kindness, driving her. You would think it odd.”

  He turned his back on his brother and continued toward his bedchamber, humming the song louder as he walked away.

  Chapter 20

  Alice dragged herself to the breakfast room alone. The snow had stopped. She would be going home.

  She felt like the entire world was drawn in gray. Even the fine spread of cakes and hothouse fruit set out on the breakfast buffet was not enough to cheer her. She took a single boiled egg. And then, since she was alone, she wrapped a few cakes in a napkin for her sisters and put them in her pocket.

  Henry walked into the room as she sat down at the table. He flashed her a smile so big that for a moment she saw colors again. Had he ever looked at her so fondly before? Was it because he knew that after today he would be rid of her?

  “We can drive on to Fleetwend now that the snow has stopped,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll ready the horses as soon as I break my fast.”

  She forced herself to smile. “Thank you.” The bundle of cakes felt strangely heavy against her thigh, like the weight of her fate was crushing her.

  Henry’s father came into the room and immediately scowled at the servant who was handing Henry a bowl of porridge. He grunted a greeting to Alice and then pointed at Henry’s bowl.

  “Where do you get that infernal mush? Surely we don’t stock that in my kitchens.”

  “I brought some from my own home so that I need not inconvenience your household, sir,” he said in a pleasant tone. Alice marveled that he was polite to his father even though the man was an ill-tempered tyrant who treated him worse than bones scavenged by wolves in a long-abandoned graveyard.

  His father watched him chew, which Henry did slowly, deliberately, as though the man was not staring at him like every swallow was an insult.

  “Fascinating, he remains so large when he is so ill-nourished,” the elder Mr. Evesham drawled to Alice, helping himself to a plate of sausages. “Is it not, Mrs. Hull?”

  Henry froze, lookin
g like he’d been slapped.

  Alice turned to Henry’s father’s, imagining her eyes were needles that could drill into his pupils. “I hope you will not think me too forward, Mr. Evesham, if I tell you that the Lord Lieutenant’s great strength and height is considered very pleasing among the young ladies back home. It will embarrass him to hear this, but they find him very handsome and are always doing their best to catch his eye. I suspect he’ll have his pick if he decides to marry.”

  Henry and his father looked at her with similar expressions of disbelief.

  She shrugged and picked at her egg. Henry had been a friend to her. Even if he was engaged to a fine lady and she’d never see him again after today, she could be a friend to him. The kind of friend who ate what remained of her egg very, very slowly, so that he would not have to be alone with his rat pecker of a father.

  Mr. Evesham recovered himself. “Speaking of marriage,” he said to his son, “I’ll do what I can to repair what damage you did with Miss Bradley-Hough at supper” his father said. “You’ll have to give up this foolish notion of ministering to whores, of course.”

  Henry looked up from his porridge.

  “Foolish, sir?” he asked, keeping his tone neutral.

  “Her father wants her wed within the year. She’s his only heir. If you’ll simply do what I’ve so helpfully arranged, you’ll be a rich man, Henry. Olivia will gladly have you, whatever she says. Her father’s given me his word.”

  “We’ll discuss it upon my return,” Henry said in a tone that made clear the discussion would go badly.

  So he wasn’t engaged. And very obviously did not want to be. A smile bloomed on her face, and she put her napkin to her mouth so neither man would see her grinning like a fool. Suddenly the morning was bright and she was hungry. She waved to the servant and took three fat, fragrant sausages from his silver tray.

  Delicious.

  Mr. Evesham had wrinkled his prodigious brows at his son, making them look like distressed caterpillars writhing around in salt. “Your return from where?” he demanded. “You can’t possibly mean to travel in this weather.”

  “The weather is perfectly suitable for travel. Bright, sunny, and the roads will be empty because of the snow. We’ll make excellent time. Mrs. Hull will be with her mother before luncheon and I’ll be back by supper.”

  He directed his attention to Alice. “Mrs. Hull, I will go prepare the horses for our journey. Ring for a footman to help you carry your things downstairs. We’ll depart at eight.”

  She nodded and took a bite of sausage, enjoying the fat exploding on her tongue.

  “Henry, the snow will pick back up,” his father said. “Leave now and you’ll be stranded.”

  “We’ll take the risk. Mrs. Hull’s mother is ill and there’s not a cloud in the sky.”

  Henry’s father slammed his knife and fork down on the table, rattling the glasses. “Henry, don’t be foolish. The weather is going to turn. I feel it in my wrist.”

  “I’m not foolish,” Henry snapped, stretching to his full height. “Nor am I willing to further delay Mrs. Hull’s journey over the paganish superstitions of your wrist.”

  “Well I shan’t be coming after you when you find yourself trapped in a storm, you fool-headed boy.”

  “I should imagine not,” Henry said. “Good day, sir.”

  He marched from the room before his father could say another word. Alice snatched the last of her sausages off her plate and scurried off behind him.

  “What a right prick,” she muttered, when she caught up.

  And despite her cursing, he laughed.

  But she could tell he was still upset as they drove away from Bowery Priory a quarter hour later. Henry appeared to invest great effort into seeming unperturbed, fixing a smile on his face and holding it there so stiffly she thought his mouth must hurt. But his fingers gave him away. He twisted them around the reins like he was trying to strangle the leather.

  “Are you all right?” she ventured.

  “I’m very well,” he murmured. “’Tis a lovely day for a drive.”

  “I meant about your father.”

  He sighed. “I’m sorry. He is coarse to speak so bluntly before guests.”

  “He is a rotten cur to speak to you that way, never mind the guests.”

  Henry glanced at her with pained amusement. “What shall I do without you to do my cursing for me, Alice Hull?”

  “Tell the bastard off yourself!”

  He laughed, shaking his head. “Thank you for your words in my defense.” He paused, and she realized he was blushing. “About … the ladies. I should not encourage lying but I won’t pretend I did not welcome that particular untruth.”

  Oh, Henry Evesham, you dear, stupid man. “If what I said was not precisely true in the particulars, it is surely true in general, Henry. I saw the way the young women looked upon you when you were preaching yesterday. Religious admiration cannot account for that much sighing.”

  He blushed, and she liked it immensely. Now that she knew he was the man from the journal, the poor fellow who found such fault with himself, she wanted to spoil him with praise. And now that she knew he was not promised to another woman, she felt quite entitled to do exactly as she liked.

  “You are very handsome, Henry. I am quite an expert in these things, you know.”

  He flushed even darker. She wished to run her fingers through the hair that fell over his ears—she knew, from the journal, he visited the barber sparingly as an economy—but instead, she told him something else she wished for him to hear before they parted.

  “And your father is a brute.”

  His eyes darted over to the trees, to the horizon, looking anywhere but at her. “Don’t say that, Alice.”

  “He is cruel to you for his own amusement. And he’s wrong. You deserve better than to suffer abuse from a man like that. You are kind.”

  His eyes finally glanced at hers, and she saw tears shining in them.

  It made her chest constrict.

  “Oh, Henry,” she said. She took his hand and squeezed it. She expected him to pull away.

  But he didn’t.

  “It’s humiliating to me that you witnessed his temper, Alice, but I am grateful for your kindness. I don’t know how I can possibly return it.”

  “You already have. Hate to make you big with flattery, but you have been a perfect hero as far as I’m concerned.”

  He squeezed her hand and grinned. “A perfect hero. ’Tis unspeakably vain of me, but I rather like that.”

  And then, as if realizing he was flirting with her while holding her hand, he dropped it and his face went rigid.

  He was so unpracticed at such games that he was adorable. Still, she doubted it would get him very far with women less odd than herself. She resolved to do what she could to give him lessons. Her own small thank you for his service, so that the poor man could find a wife.

  Besides, she enjoyed flirting with him, and she didn’t know when she would next have the opportunity to enjoy herself.

  She inclined her head demurely, gave him an inviting, womanly smile. “You’ve spent days driving in all weather in an attempt to get me home. And you’ve been such a comfort in my low moments.” She softened her voice, remembering his face when he’d prayed with her in the staircase. “A girl could get accustomed to having you about.”

  He winced, but she could tell he liked it.

  He turned to her shyly and said, “Alice, if you flatter me like this I may decide to keep you as my captive rather than driving you home.”

  Please. I’d like nothing better.

  “It’s not flattery. It’s true. Without you I would not have a hope of saying goodbye to my mother.”

  All at once, her flirtatious mood deserted her. She had not meant to say those words—they had come out accidentally. It was the first time she’d acknowledged aloud that this was what awaited her in Fleetwend: her dear, difficult mother, dying. The person who loved her with a ferocity that was lik
e a compass, showing her what was north. Gone.

  For all their disagreements, she could not imagine life without that love. It was like a furnace that blazed and blazed but never ran out of coal. Even if she could not feel its warmth on her skin, she’d always known it would be there when she came back to it.

  In a way, it made her brave. For she knew that the strength of that love was enough to overcome whatever Alice might do to cause her mother disappointment.

  It was so fierce, she had taken it for granted.

  “Don’t fret, Alice,” Henry said softly, misreading her sudden silence. “We’ll be there soon. Two hours at the most.”

  “I’ve not been good to her, Henry,” she whispered. “I’ve treated her as a nuisance.”

  He looked at her with a deep sympathy in his eyes. “Don’t condemn yourself. It’s clear how much you love her. And you have this drive to think of what you’d like to say to her. I have seen many a parishioner who misses the opportunity to say farewell.”

  “I don’t condemn myself,” she confessed. She said the words that had been troubling her for days: “In a way, I feel I am not nearly sad enough. I am angry this has happened. For myself. I don’t want to go home.”

  It was a shocking sentiment. The words felt bitter in her mouth. She could not bring herself to look at him, knowing what he would think of her for airing such thoughts.

  He reached out and touched her hand. “It’s more common than you might imagine, to feel angry.” His tone was gentle, and not the least bit judgmental. “I’ve been at many funerals, many bedsides. There is no right or wrong way to feel in the face of loss.”

  Surely, her way—blistering pity for herself and resentment at what her life would be—was not the right one. Henry would almost certainly be appalled if he could see inside her heart.

  She was glad she did not possess a journal he might find.

  “I think I might be a truly bad person, Henry,” she confessed. “Truly.”

  He wrinkled his brow. “Why?”

  She liked him so much for that simple question. For not dismissing her concern, but probing it. It would be such a relief to pour out the dark, black thoughts that were ricocheting in her mind. To tell him of her dread at the narrowing of her future. The dreams she’d dared to have and must abandon.