Henry stood in the doorway, watching her.
As she stepped forward, he turned and strode inside the house.
Chapter Eighteen
In Venice they do let heaven see thepranks
They dare not show their husbands. Their bestconscience
Is not to leave undone, but keepunknown.
—Shakespeare,Othello
Henry disappeared intothe house before Anne reached the front door. He did not want to make assumptions about what he’d just witnessed—as he had done once before—but he would not ask her for an explanation either. Asking would only lead to more untruths. Anne had not been honest about Nate and the role he played in her life—and one thing was certain—he was far more to her than a friend of her late husband.
Making his escape to the library, he extracted a book from the shelves and ensconced himself on a chair in a far corner of the room. He opened the book,A Discourse on the American Civil War, and used it as a prop while he brooded over the day’s events. He remained deep in thought until the time arrived for tea, which the family enjoyed every Sunday at five o’clock, in lieu of their usual six o’clock dinner. Like everything in the Bastin household, it was a casual affair and a time for family togetherness. Under normal circumstances, he would have looked forward to it, but knowing that Anne would be at the table with little Alice, who on weekdays ate her supper an hour before her parents, Henry entered the dining room with a sense of apprehension.
As usual, he stooped to kiss first Ottilie and then Alice’s cheeks whilst trying not to look at Anne, who sat beside the child. Despite the hours he’d spent contemplating things in the library, he hadn’t resolved anything in his mind. He wanted to remain impartial, but he found he could not. He cared too much. He could not look at or think about Anne without seeing her grasp the reins of Nate’s horse and plead with him to wait. Nor could he look at her without hearing the desperation in her voice as she called out to the man, as if heartbroken he was leaving her.
He took his seat next to Bastin and found himself sitting directly opposite Anne. The table stood laden with an assortment of meat pies, cakes, scones, triangled sandwiches, and pedestals filled with fruit. Henry pulled one of the tall silver fruit bowls toward him, using it to obscure his view of Anne. Then he lifted a bunch of grapes from it and placed them on his plate, after which, he busied himself by pouring a cup of tea.
“Where were you all afternoon?” Ottilie asked.
“The library. I had some reading to catch up on.”
“Really? Does that mean you’ve rekindled your interest in poetry?”
“No,” Henry said flatly and reached for the honey pot. As a boy, Jack had been indentured to an American who owned a ranch and a sugar plantation in Texas. The horrors he’d witnessed on the plantation turned him from using sugar forever. It wasn’t in protest—slavery had long since ended—but looking at sugar triggered disturbing memories; consequently, sugar had been banned from the Bastin household.
“Good girl,” Ottilie praised her daughter as she grasped a piece of cucumber from her plate and took a bite. “Is it delicious?”
The child smacked her lips and took another bite. “Mum mum.”
Henry smiled. He enjoyed having the toddler at the table.
Radical thinkers like Ottilie and Jack did not believe in enforcing a bland diet on their little girl. They exposed their child to all the colors and tastes of the rainbow, and she enjoyed excellent health and sported rosy cheeks because of it.
Ottilie stirred a teaspoon of honey into her tea and turned to Henry. “I’ve always hoped you’d reignite your interest in writing poetry. It seems a horrible waste to squander such talent.”
“I don’t have talent,” Henry said, aware of Anne’s eyes on him. “I had to labor over my writing. It didn’t simply flow from my quill onto the page.”
“Oh, come now,” Bastin said. “You know very well I labor good and long to get the words right. The talent lies in the writer’s ability to understand human nature and connect with his readers.”
“Orherreaders,” Ottilie said.
“Or hers.” Bastin smiled.
“Well, I suppose that’s my failure, then. I fail to connect with people both in person and on paper.” A trace of bitterness rose in Henry’s chest. He could sense his mood turning dark but felt powerless to stop it from happening.
“Don’t talk rubbish, Henry. You are the most compassionate and kind man I know—aside from Jack, of course.” Ottilie gave her cousin a dimpled smile.
“As my cousin, you are obliged to say so.” Henry helped himself to a piece of pre-sliced meat pie and hoped Ottilie would change the subject.
But she did not.
“In that case, we shall consult with a neutral party.” She turned to Anne. “What do you think? Is Henry not a kind and compassionate individual?”
“You don’t have to answer that.” Henry glanced at Anne and then lowered his eyes back to his plate. He wished there was some way to put an end to this conversation.
