New Beginnings
HASKET HOUSE, LONDON - JUNE 5, 1816
CELINE
It was a ritual now,pressing a kiss to my fingertips before dropping it to him. Spreading the blanket above him and settling down, my back against his cool, broad form. On days such as this, he was a balm against the oppressive, damp summer heat.
“Bonjour, mon amour. Et joyeux anniversaire.”
I allowed myself a moment for the grief to come. It was always particularly sharp on these kinds of days. It had once been an open wound, gaping and bleeding. Then it burned with fever and infection. Now it was an old, familiar pain. Some days it was a dull ache, easily ignored. Others, like today, it throbbed in reminder, but it was manageable.
More and more frequently, the pain was shrouded in guilt. It should not be so easily biddable. At one time, I could not open my eyes without thoughts of him. Last week I made it until luncheon before a bite of cheese reminded me of his teasing expression. That my earlier greeting was hindered only by a lump in my throat instead of the all-encompassing sobs of years past—that was perhaps the greater hurt.
It was a nonsensical thought. My husband had been gone for seven years. I had been talking to his headstone for four times longer than we had been married. A lone tear escaped, and I brushed it away.
My sorrow was quiet this year.
Gabriel had not been a good man, not by anyone’s definition, but he had been good to me, loved me. He would not wish my wraithlike existence of the first few years to continue.
With that hopeful thought, I continued with my ritual. “I don’t suppose you know what one wears to a masquerade held in a gaming hell. A masquerade hosted by the wife of one’s former lover, even.” The only response was a light breeze brushing through my curls.
“I thought not. Perhaps the deep plum with the beads? It’s a bit outdated, but there’s a certain theatricality to it that might suit for a masquerade.” The fluff of a dandelion danced across the tip of my foot on its journey to somewhere new.
“I’m glad we’re in agreement. Your mother is planning to wear something in the style of Marie Antoinette. For all I know, it’s one of the woman’s actual gowns. You know your mother would not consider it to be overdone.” A great tit landed on the nearby oak branch, chirping its usual two syllables at me.
“I do not know what your sister will wear. Perhaps something she stole from that pirate captain your brother and I had to barter her return from last month. She is determined to vex him into an early grave. Are we certain she is not in line to inherit?”
A cloud shifted and the sun found my face, bathing it in a pleasant warmth. Somehow this warmth was peaceful instead of muggy as it had been earlier.
“Michael told me that Lord Champaign may be in attendance tonight. No one has seen him in some years, and it’s all very mysterious. You know how I love a mysterious man… Perhapshe will favor me with a dance. I know how you appreciated his attentions toward me before we wed.”
The breeze picked up slightly, clouds returning to veil the sun, and the oak leaves rustling their discontent at the disturbance.
“I wish you could come with me. Can you imagine the fun we would have had at a masquerade? And at a gaming hell? Thetonnever would have recovered from our mischief. There are a great many darkened corners in Wayland’s. You wouldn’t have been able to resist dragging me to one and having your way with me. I would have let you think you were the seducer, but in that plum gown, I would have seduced you.”
One of the irises I had planted around his resting place brushed against my arm as the pale-blue butterfly inspecting it moved on to the next.
I was not delusional. My husband was dead. I knew these events were happenstances of nature and nothing more. That breezes and butterflies happened every day all across the country. I knew they happened around me without notice. A regular, uneventful coincidence when I promenaded through the park or stepped into the carriage.
But here, in the little Hasket family plot, they felt different, special.
They were an enticing awareness down my spine.
They were Gabriel.
One
HART AND SUMMERS, SOLICITORS, LONDON - JUNE 5, 1816
WILLIAM
Drowning in paperwork,what a way to die. My epitaph would read:William Hart. He survived an entire war only to be crushed to death by contracts. Dearest nothing. Beloved to no one.
My hand gave a pathetic seize in protest as I signed the topmost copy. That was the bargain I made with my body, the cramped way I held my quill to write with my favored left hand in exchange for recognizable letters. No amount of knuckle raps from tutors had been able to force legible penmanship from the right.
“Finished yet?” I glanced up to see Kit Summers leaning against the doorway in his customary manner. My partner’s dark, curly mop of hair was overgrown and he hadn’t bothered to shave in several days. Propped against the door, his arms were crossed and his perpetually disgruntled mouth was turned unusually far down. The brow was furrowed too.
“You look like shite,” I retorted, ignoring the question.
