Theresa Romain - It Takes Two to Tangle

But in his heart…

“Yes,” he said, and he knew she understood.

She smiled, a bit sadly. “How did you get so wise?”

A short laugh popped out. “Wise. Well, I haven’t been called that in a while.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, holding his hands and pulling them toward her. “You are. Very. Wise.”

When she opened her eyes, they were almost nose-to-nose. They breathed the same air, smiled the same smile.

She released his hands. “Very wise. So wise, I think you deserve a reward.”

The air of the room was still and warm on his skin. Frances pressed at his shoulders until he was laid out, flat, and his back ground into the coarse wool of the carpet. Sun cut through the window and filled his eyes, and he closed them against the dazzling brightness.

The world was nothing but touch, nothing but the sun, and her fingers gliding over his skin. And then it was her mouth, hot as a fire and wet as a lake. Impossible, yet it was happening. He was buried, and he was flying. He could not stand it; he could not bear for it to end.

His back arched in a silent cry.

His eyes snapped open. “Come with me.”

She leaned forward, the tip of her tongue peeking between her lips. “Now?”

“Yes.” He could not manage more than one syllable. He could only pull her atop him.

They would go through life together. They could come together too.

He laughed, and that made it even better.

Their marriage was set to take place in two weeks’ time at Tallant House. As a wedding present to the couple, Jem helped Henry obtain a special license. He also sent a reluctant Sowerberry to Winter Cottage for several days, to install a few servants and make sure the small house was ready to receive the newlywed couple.

Four days before the wedding, Henry sat in Jem’s study looking over an account book for Winter Cottage. The usual assortment of post littered the broad desk, and Jem whistled as he sliced open invitations and notes and bills with swift flicks of a penknife.

As the knife slit paper after paper, the whistling grew louder, until there was no chance of concentrating on the accounts. As of three years before, Winter Cottage had seemed to be in solid shape, but for all that Henry could tell amidst Jem’s auditory barrage, it might have been conquered by mermaids since then.

The whistling stopped for an instant, then drew out long and slow in a piercing fall. Then silence.

“Jem?”

Getting no reply, Henry snapped the ledger shut. Standing, he faced his brother over the back of his chair. “Has something happened?”

Jem’s mouth was hanging open as he stared at a paper in his hand. Henry’s voice seemed to jar him back to awareness. His face grew faintly pink. “This must be some kind of maggoty humbug. Here, take a look, Hal.”

He released the inscribed paper from an unsteady hand before Henry could take hold of it. It flipped open as it drifted slowly to the floor, and from its folds a paper rectangle fell next to the desk.

“What is this?” Henry crouched to pluck up the smaller paper. “A bank draft?”

“I shouldn’t have opened it except that it was mixed in with my letters. Sorry about that.”

“Wait. It’s for me?” Henry rose to his feet and squinted at the paper, wondering if the name was a mistake. “Someone has sent me a bank draft for a thousand pounds. This can’t be right. What on God’s green…”

Sussex. It came from Sussex, he noticed. “Was there a letter with this?”

Jem handed it over with a nod.

Dear Mr. Middlebrook,

It is my pleasure to send a portion of my daughter’s dowry to you, as a sign of my esteem for you and my faith in your honorable intentions. The remainder of the amount—a further eleven thousand pounds—I will gladly transfer to you upon receiving news of your marriage.

This amount has been set aside for Frances since the time of her birth, on the condition that she marry in accordance with my wishes. Please do not think ill of me for having withheld it from her at the time of her first marriage. I hope it can be of use to you as you build a new life together during what I hope will be many long years of peace.

All my best regards for your happiness.

Sincerely,

Sir Wallace Ward, Bart

P.S.—I should be pleased to receive a letter from Frances if she would care to write me.

“I say, Hal.” Jem had sidled over to read the letter over Henry’s shoulder. “A dowry for Frances. Who’d have thought you were marrying an heiress?”

Henry shook his head and folded the draft back inside the letter. “Not I.”

Well. First a father, now financial security. This was a very fine set of wedding presents for Frances.

For his part, he was happy enough just to have Frances.

***

Henry did not expect any further surprises that day. An enormous bank draft and a country household run by phantom mermaids were surely eventful enough.

Which was why, when he was sitting at the morning room’s desk practicing his penmanship in an endless string of AEIOUs and sometimes Ys too, he was only concerned with trying to ignore the feeling of being watched by the painted figures in the room’s mural. The goddess Athena had the look of a wretched termagant.

A tap at the door caught him unawares.

“Come,” he called. He sanded his paper, then turned to see who had entered.

“Bart.” Henry blinked. “You’re back in London? I thought you’d be shooting partridge around Beckworth by now.”

Bart held a high-crowned beaver hat behind his back, tapping its fashionably wide brim against the backs of his knees. “Oh, well. I wanted to see how things went with the letter. My letter. Ah, the one I wrote to Mrs. Whittier.”

“As well as you can imagine. We’re getting married in a few days. Maybe you didn’t know, since I sent word to Beckworth.”

“Are you? That’s excellent. Well done, Hal.” Tap, tap, tap, went the hat behind his back.

Henry’s brow furrowed. “Bart, you’ve never been a good liar. I can see you’ve heard the news already. And you’re going to mar the shape of what I’m sure is a very fashionable hat if you keep whacking at the brim. What’s going on?”

Bart stared at the floor, then said in a rush, “I understand if you don’t want me at your wedding—”

“What?”

“—because our friendship’s fallen by the wayside in recent years.”

Henry held up his hand. “Bart. Wait. I didn’t keep up any friendships in recent years. It just wasn’t possible while I was in the military. It had nothing to do with you or our friendship.”

The hat flipped in Bart’s hands, fumbled, fell to the ground. “Sorry,” Bart said in a tight voice as he bent and retrieved his hat. His face was redder when he stood than one might have expected, considering he’d only been bent over for a second or two.

As if he’d been rapped on the head with a candle, light dawned in Henry’s mind. Bart felt hurt. And if the situations were reversed, Henry might well have felt the same. How else would he react if an old friend returned after years of silence, let him learn of a serious injury by chance, then largely avoided his company in Town?

It had nothing to do with Bart, just as Henry had said. But maybe he understood his old friend better than ever now. Just as quiet Bart always had, Henry now knew the feeling of separation within a crowd, of light pleasantries weighing heavily on a mind distracted.

And Bart, like Jem and Emily, remembered Henry’s best self. He gave Henry another chance to reach out and remember it himself. Bart’s unquestioning loyalty meant all the more after Henry’s long separation from everyone he knew.

“Bart,” Henry said. His old friend had begun to turn toward the door. “Bart, to whom did I entrust the first letter to Frances?”

Bart turned back to Henry, looking puzzled.

“You, Bart. I trusted you. I knew Frances thought you a kind man, and she would value a letter from you. Your friendship is worth a great deal.” Henry smiled. “To me.”

Bart’s face reddened. “Oh, well. It was—I mean, I was happy to do it.”

“Thank you. I am very grateful for that.” Henry nodded. “For everything.”

It was not the most articulate thanks, but he hoped Bart would understand. If Henry was any more effusive, he would embarrass them both.

“I’m afraid,” Henry continued, idly straightening papers on the desk, “that I can’t hunt anymore. But I’d still be pleased to go to Beckworth next autumn.”

Bart scuffed a booted foot in the carpet and gave a rascally grin. “That’s no kind of a problem, Hal. You can help the hounds retrieve the game.”

Henry chuckled. “I’ve been a son of a bitch to you often enough. That might be the perfect way to repay me.”

Bart laughed, ducking his head. “Well. I’ll see you next hunting season then. I suppose you’re busy today.”

“Not so busy. Emily’s working herself into a frenzy over my wedding preparations and won’t allow me to do a thing. There’s nothing in the world that makes her happier than mild domestic chaos.” Henry motioned toward a chair. “Please, sit.”

With another tap of his hat against his legs, Bart sidled to a chair and perched at the edge of it.

“I’ll probably see you again long before next autumn,” Henry said. “In fact, if you don’t have to head to Beckworth immediately, I’d be honored if you’d stay in London to attend the wedding. It will be just for family, here at Tallant House.”

“Do you mean it?” Bart leaned forward. The chair tipped, upsetting his balance, and he spent a few chagrined seconds rearranging himself into a dignified posture.

“Yes, of course. Though I should warn you, Emily is determined that any gentleman who attends should wear a striped cravat. She insists they are—”

Together, Henry and Bart chorused, “All the crack.”

Bart laughed. “She’s right, you know.”

Henry raised his hand in a gesture of surrender. He didn’t know these things. But it didn’t matter. He’d relearn it all in time, as much as he needed to.

Bart twirled his hat on his forefinger. “Do you have time for one more ride in the curricle before you settle down?”

“I’m sure there’s time for that,” Henry said.

“Where shall we go?”

The old question. Henry remembered running free, not caring what the answer was.

He didn’t really care now. Anywhere would be just fine.

“I don’t know.” Henry let a grin spread across his face. “Where would you like to go? We’ll go anywhere you like.”

As Bart grinned back, Henry snapped his fingers in a gesture of remembrance. “As long as we stop at Gunter’s on the way back. If we drive hell for leather across Berkeley Square, we might be able to bring Jem home an ice before it melts.”

“So we shall,” said Bart. “I say, would you care to drive the team?”

***

Henry drove the team. They never broke out of a walk, and horses and men all survived, though the ice was almost completely melted by the time it arrived at Tallant House. Still, Lord Tallant devoured it with indecorous glee.

Four days later, Henry did not wear a striped cravat. Yet he and Frances still contrived to be married.

Jem manfully choked back tears during the brief ceremony, and Frances beamed up into Henry’s face as he clasped her hands together. She was swathed in white satin, pale as cloud. Hair dark as earth, eyes steady as a tree.

He could not help his flight of fancy as he spoke his vows. She was his world.

After they were pronounced man and wife, the newlyweds and their few guests piled into the dining room for a wedding breakfast that Emily assured them would possess all the pomp missing from the ceremony itself.

She was right. Henry looked over piles of brioche and cakes and eggs and sliced meats with a wondering eye.

“What do you think?” Emily said to Henry in a low voice, as Jem began to pour chocolate out of a silver pot as neatly as any footman.

Henry thought there was far too much food for only a half-dozen people—the same half dozen, in fact, who’d come to dine at Tallant House, cheat at cards, and criticize Henry’s fireplace screen.

How much they had been through since then.

“Thank you, Emily. You are very kind.” He offered her a smile, knowing she would consider his gratitude the best repayment for her efforts. Not just now. Always. You are very kind.