Theresa Romain - It Takes Two to Tangle

My parents refused to see us. Charles and I moved away to start a new life in a town where no one knew us, but there was never enough to live on. When the War of the Fifth Coalition began in 1809, a recruiting party came to our village, beating the drum for volunteers. They paid a small bounty to any man who enlisted. To Charles, the army seemed the solution to our problems. War held the promise of glory, of making something grand of himself. You know as well as I that the reality is much different. I talked to the recruiters. To soldiers’ wives. To men who had come home from the war ill or injured. After doing so, I knew Charles would probably never come back to me. Still, I could not ask him to stay for my sake when he wanted so badly to go. It was my atonement.

There was no glory for him, of course. He died ill and alone, far away on the Continent, and I thought I would die too from the sorrow of it. I felt guilty at first too, as if I had pushed him away to his fate. So deeply did I grieve him that it took me some months to realize how poor I was. But it was the same problem we had always had: there was not enough to live on. I began to sell off our possessions and take in sewing, but it was never enough.

This is when a letter came from Caroline. She took me into her home when my parents would not see me. She paid off my debts. She let me cry on the shoulder of her expensive silk gowns. I did not exaggerate when I said I owed her everything. She’s the sister of my heart, always generous. Why, she even lent me her identity when I sent you letters and you wished them from her.

That’s who I am, Henry: a devoted, devious fool for love.

Once again, I have done the wrong thing, but this time for the right reasons. I have been selfish in wanting to be with you, but I also wanted you to be happier. I wanted you to find again the things you had loved and thought lost. And when you began to, I was as delighted as if they were my own joys.

I’ve never lied to you except to keep you near—but you would never have stayed near if I had not lied. Do the ends justify the means? That is for you to decide, I suppose: whether what we have gained together is more than what you have lost.

I hope to see you again soon if you live and forgive. Often, even, if you like—just as I told you in my first letter. My regard for you has always been true.

Please believe me to be,

Yours,

Frances

“Frannie, you must eat something.” A hand thrust a plate of watercress sandwiches into Frances’s field of vision, covering the blank sheet of paper at which Frances had been staring for several hours.

Frances rubbed at her eyes. “Watercress? No. That’s not even food.”

The hand set down the plate. “Yes, it is,” said Caroline’s voice. “My callers eat these sandwiches every day. They positively gobble them down as if the bread is stuffed with ambrosia.”

“That’s because they’re trying to impress you with their good manners.” Frances lifted the plate from the top of her desk and tried to press it back into Caroline’s hand.

“If they want to do that, they should eat a little less. But for your sake, I’m not at home to callers today. So you can eat the sandwiches instead.”

Frances crossed her arms.

“That’s all the response I am to get?” Caroline dropped into a crouch next to Frances’s desk with a rustle of silk skirts. “Fine. I invoke my lofty rank and order you to choose between two options. You may eat something, or you may go to sleep. Or you could go have a bath. Three—three options. That’s quite generous of me.”

Frances stared at the blank paper as though a reply from Henry might materialize on it. She only had to concentrate hard enough, wish for it fervently enough. She was not sure she even remembered how to shut her eyes.

Caroline’s fingers curled on the edge of the writing desk, and she rested her chin in her hands. “Frannnnie,” she chanted.

All right, so Frances did remember how to shut her eyes. She covered them for good measure. “Stop it. Stop that lost-kitten face, Caroline. Stop.”

“But I know you’ve been sitting here all night. One of the footmen told Millie.”

Caroline sighed. “All right, uncover your eyes. The lost kitten is gone. I look perfectly blasé. But please, get up, Frannie. We can send for some newspapers, and we’ll get all the scandal sheets this morning. Or I can send Pollitt to Boodle’s to talk to the servants there. Someone will know what happened.”

“Yes,” Frances said. “But I’m afraid to find out.”

Her joints felt numb from sitting in the same position for hours. The plate of uneaten sandwiches proved that this was far from a normal day, while the blank paper on the desk reminded her of the letter she’d sent.

As long as she sat at this desk, she was connected to him. As long as she stayed in this room, wore the clothes in which he’d last seen her, and did not learn the outcome of the duel. He would still be all right, as long as she didn’t know he wasn’t.

That was stupid, of course. Caroline was right. They might as well find out.

And she might as well stand up. She pushed back her chair, stretched, and realized she was sore in places she’d never noticed. The fronts of her shoulders. The base of her skull. The backs of her knees. And Lord, did she need a chamber pot.

“You look terrible,” Caroline said helpfully.

“I ought to. I’ve given it a determined effort.” Frances’s elbows and knees popped as she shook out her skirts. She felt like the oldest woman in the world. “But it doesn’t matter. Let’s get those papers.”

They had scarcely two minutes to wait before the lady’s maid, Millie, scratched at the morning room door and entered with an armful of newsprint. “We’ve been out gathering these, my lady. Pollitt’s just ironed them for you, but they don’t have the news you’ll be wanting. But I heard from John Coachman that he heard someone talking in the mews, and they said that they’d talked to a maid from Tallant House, and she said the duel’s done finished already.”

Caroline nodded her perfect understanding at this string of confidences. Thus did London’s news circulate; thus did its gossiping heart beat. She shot a look at Frances as she accepted the newspapers from her lady’s maid. “And? What happened?”

Frances couldn’t speak a word. She just waited, rooted to the floor.

“Neither gentleman’s been shot, my lady. And John Coachman says as he heard the earl’s brother made a fine show of himself, for all that he’s got only one arm what works proper.”

Frances clutched at the back of her chair. She wouldn’t sit down again; she’d break into pieces. But oh, thank God in heaven. Henry was safe. It was over.

“That’s wonderful news, Millie. Thank you,” Caroline said. “Here, take a watercress sandwich with you. Take one for John Coachman too.”

Frances tightened her grip on the chair, not caring that she might split the fine old tapestry cover with her nails.

Henry might be feted all over the City this morning, but it was possible he’d gone back to Tallant House first. If he was, he’d have received her letter. Surely he would read it at once. Or he’d decide he didn’t want to read it at all.

How long would she have to wait for an answer? Or how long before she knew silence was all she’d get as a reply?

Longer than she could wait in this room. She sighed. “Caroline, I’m going to have a bath.”

Too many questions. Maybe hot water would wash them away.

***

Caroline knocked while Frances was still soaking in the bathtub.

“Frannie?”

Frances’s head jerked up, and she coughed and sputtered. She’d dozed off in the tub, and her chin had slid below the water’s surface.

Excellent. While Henry survived a duel, Frances would drown on a mouthful of stale, lukewarm bathwater. She rolled her eyes, lifted her hands. They looked soggy and wrinkled.

“Frannie, can I come in?” Caroline peeked in, then averted her eyes at once. “You are still in the bath? God heavens, Frannie, you’ll turn into an old prune.”

“At least I’m a clean prune.”

“I suppose I ought to be pleased about that.” Caroline rummaged through Frances’s wardrobe and found a wrapper. She laid it out on the bed, carefully arranging and smoothing the garment with her back to the great copper tub. “Towel off and wrap up. A letter’s been delivered for you.”

Water splashed and flopped as Frances hoisted herself to a sitting position. With her back still turned, Caroline added, “It’s not from him, Frannie. But you might as well come see. It’s better than staying in the bath until you get as waterlogged as a dead fish.”

“Old prune and dead fish. The absence of your suitors has inspired you with disgusting flights of creativity.”

“Well, if you don’t like it, you should come read your letter and let us both rejoin the social world.”

With Millie’s help, Frances was dried and dressed in less than ten minutes. Her hair fell loose down her back, leaving wet spots on her gown, but it was a sensible dark cotton day dress that wouldn’t stain.

She found Caroline and the mysterious letter in the morning room. With a swift swipe of her thumb, she cracked the seal, eyes darting over the unfamiliar round handwriting in search of her correspondent’s name.

Sir Bartlett; that is, Bart Crosby.

A letter for her, from Bart Crosby? How odd; he was Caroline’s admirer. Yet the letter was for Frances. The salutation confirmed that.

Dear Mrs. Whittier,

I thank you for standing as my friend during my calls on Lady Stratton.

As you may know, I have a country estate, Beckworth, to which I customarily invite a party at the end of the season. I have recently learned that you are fond of country life.

If you should ever take a fancy to escape the City, please know that you—and Lady Stratton, naturally—are always welcome at Beckworth. I plan to depart today, so if you wish to reply, you may direct your letter there.

Yours truly,

Sir Bartlett; that is, Bart Crosby.

How distinctly odd. Decidedly strange. Indescribably bizarre.

A letter from Bart Crosby.

The only person with whom Frances had recently discussed country life was Henry. Had Henry told Bart—and if so, to what purpose?

“What does it say?” Caroline asked, walking over to peek at the paper in Frances’s hand.

“Nothing much.” Hastily, Frances folded it again and pressed at the soft seal. Her own puzzled questions were enough to contend with; she didn’t want Caroline to start speculating as well.

Of course, when the second letter for Frances arrived only a few minutes later, Caroline could not help but speculate.

“Good heavens, Frannie. That looks like the Applewood seal. Can you think why they would be writing to you? I was sure we had behaved ourselves tolerably well at their ball a few weeks ago.”

“I am sure we did.” Frances’s brows knit as she coaxed open this new seal. “They wouldn’t care that you hit Lord Wadsworth with your fan. And I know we didn’t spill lemonade on anyone.”

“Then we behaved much better than Lady Applewood’s eldest girl,” Caroline said, but Frances was hardly listening.

Dear Mrs. Whittier,

I am writing to ask you for a favor! Would you have guessed?

At my recent ball, dear Lady Stratton told me you always make everything better and easier for her. I know there is only one of you!—but if you have a moment, I’d be delighted to have you pop over and advise me on some arrangements for our next ball. Someone with a fine memory and impeccable manners is just the sort of woman I want at hand. I hope to wrest Lady Stratton’s receipt for lemon tarts from her clutches—and if I do, of course, we shall sample cakes and tarts aplenty.

Kindest regards,

Venetia Applewood

“What does she want?” Caroline pressed. “Is it about spilled lemonade?”

“In a way,” Frances said, handing her the letter. “It seems she wants a companion’s aid. She offers cake as an incentive. Rather wise of her.”

“Ah, this is my fault. I praised you to the heavens when I last spoke with her.” Caroline looked self-conscious. “I might possibly have been feeling a bit envious of her elegant mansion, and I wanted to remind her that I had things she had not. Namely, the help of a Frannie.”