She looked back at the small room, at the window through which Wordsworth must have gazed a thousand times. "I want to try. Publishing, I mean. When we get back."
"Do you?"
"I think so. I'm terrified, but I think that means I should do it." She squeezed his hand. "Will you help me?"
"Of course. Whatever you need."
"I might need a pseudonym. Something appropriately mysterious."
"Might I suggest something classical? Sappho, perhaps?"
"Too obvious. Everyone would know immediately."
"Hmm. What about something botanical? Rose Thornwood?"
"That sounds like a character in a Gothic novel."
"Exactly. Very marketable."
Harriet laughed, surprising herself. "You're ridiculous."
"Ridiculously supportive of my wife's literary ambitions, yes."
They walked back to the cottage through a light rain, their hands intertwined, talking about poems and publishers and pseudonyms. Harriet felt something that she had almost forgotten existed: hope.
Not hope for a child. She was trying to let go of that, as her mother had suggested. But hope for herself. Hope for her writing. Hope for a future that didn't revolve around her body's failures.
It was a strange feeling. Fragile and new. But it was there, blooming quietly in her chest.
And for now, that was enough.
***
The letter from London arrived on a rainy afternoon.
Sebastian was sitting by the window, reading, while Harriet wrote at the small desk they had positioned for optimal lake views. The domestic scene was so peaceful, so ordinary, that he found himself reluctant to open the letter.
It was from Lady Fordshire, her familiar handwriting bold and decisive on the envelope.
"News from your mother," he said, slicing the seal.
Harriet looked up. "Is everything quite all right?"
"Let me see." Sebastian scanned the contents. "The mining income from Fordshire Park is exceeding expectations. Your mother is considering renovations to the east wing."
"How exciting."
"There's also gossip." Sebastian smiled slightly. "It seems Lady Davies is having a difficult time of it. Her husband is rumored to be conducting an affair with a widow in Surrey, and their son…" He paused, rereading the line.
"…apparently bears a striking resemblance to the family's former stable master."
Harriet's eyebrows rose. “Surely you jest?”
"I'm reading your mother's exact words…The child has the Sinclair colouring but the Jameson chin, and everyone has noticed."
"The stable master's name was Jameson?"
"Apparently so."
