“I quite agree,” Anne’s voice floated across the table in a sweet bubble, enticing Henry to look at her, but he willed his eyes to stay on his plate, forking a piece of meat pie into his mouth and chewing slowly.
“Did Henry tell you he was a poet, Anne?” Bastin asked.
“I believe he said he dabbled in writing it,” she said.
Hearing the implied admonition in her voice, Henry tightened his grip on his fork. “I haven’t written anything in two years. So I think it’s safe to say I am no longer a poet.”
“I disagree, and so does Jack’s publisher,” Ottilie said. Why did they both continue to act as though he wanted to be published? They wouldn’t let the matter rest. It had been two years since Bastin’s London Publisher had offered to publish his poetry. Wasn’t it obvious it wasn’t something he wished to pursue?
Henry gave no answer. He’d given up writing poetry after learning that the deceased Lord Hudsyn was likely not his father, and his true father was the same man who fathered Ottilie—a poet and an amoral rake. He’d refused publication of his poetry and asked Bastin to destroy the manuscript. So, thinking about it now was pointless.
“I kept it, you know,” Ottilie said as if she had full access to his thoughts.
He put down his fork and turned to Bastin. “I thought I told you to burn it.”
“I’d never let him do that,” Ottilie said. “It means too much to me.”
Henry sighed. “If it brings you joy, dear cousin, then it has met its purpose.”
Ottilie’s smile appeared tinged with sadness.
“Do you enjoy poetry, Mrs. Crawford?” Bastin said.
“I prefer novels.” Her cheeks pinked. “I am in the process of reading one of yours—Mrs. Bastin was very kind to provide me with a copy ofThe Renegade. It’s wonderful.”
“I’m pleased you’re enjoying it. A writer never tires of validation from his audience.”
“Perhaps you can write an essay on it when you’re finished,” Ottilie suggested. “What does Mrs. Thomas have you working on at the moment—The Female Quixote, is it?”
“I completed my essay on that novel, and now I have moved to Shakespeare.”
“Tragedy or a comedy?”
“Tragedy.” Anne paused. “Othello.”
Henry’s heart drummed to a mix of emotions his mind couldn’t make sense of, and he forced himself to focus on his food, slicing a piece of lamb and forking it into his mouth.
“That’s a difficult play,” Ottilie said. “Did you select it, or did the headmistress suggest it for you?”
“I saw a production of Othello recently—” Anne’s voice faltered—“and I wanted to read it for a more in-depth study.”
“Are you speaking of the production at the Theatre Royal in Canterbury?” Bastin addressed Anne but shifted his eyes to Henry.
“Yes,” Anne said. “It’s a local production, but very well done.”
“You saw that, too, didn’t you, Henry?” Bastin said.
Henry cleared his throat. “Yes, I went on a whim. It’s a wonderful production indeed. You and Ottilie might think of going.” He forced a casual tone. The last thing he wanted was to give rise to Bastin’s suspicions and learn what a fool he’d made of himself.
“More,” Alice banged her spoon against her empty plate, providing a welcome distraction. Henry felt a flood of affection for Anne as he watched her slice a piece of meat and potato pie into little pieces for Alice.
“What are your thoughts on the play itself?” Ottilie asked as Anne chopped a slice of meat and potato pie into small pieces for Alice. “Have they changed with a closer reading?”
“When I saw the play, Desdemona’s murder shocked and frightened me. Now, it gives rise to feelings of anger rather than fear.”
“Because?” Ottilie prompted.
“The injustice of it all—not just the murder of an innocent—but the injustices that women in our society face.”
