Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mist shrouded the Chiltern Hills, softening the verdant landscape to a muted gray-green. Her father’s coach crossed the bridge over the Misbourne River and entered the broad high street of Amersham village. They slowed behind a cart laden with hay. Henrietta gazed out the window spotted with rain, at the sooty black and white timber framed buildings with their cobbled courtyards. The dark stone clock tower of the market hall, with its bell that called people to market every Tuesday, stood out against the gray sky. Nothing ever changed here. She found the fact both soothing and troublesome.
Nanny Felton, once Henrietta’s nurse and henceforth part of life at Beaumont Court, stood at the door, arms folded. But there was no rebuke for Henrietta’s outrageous behavior which had set the two households on their ears. Instead, Nanny held out her arms and Henrietta gratefully stepped into them. She trembled. “There, there, my child. It can’t be as bad as that.” Nanny patted her back.
“Oh, Nanny, I’m sorry I worried you. I think I’m being amply punished for it.”
“Nonsense,” Nanny said briskly. “You’re tired. A few good nights of country air and nourishing food will set you to rights.”
Her father was soon closeted with his staff. He’d appeared at breakfast, before they left London, and told her the news. He and Verity would marry as soon as the play ended its run.
Although she was delighted for them both, it did little to lessen the despair that dragged her down. She climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. Molly hurried to greet her. “I prayed you’d return before I left Beaumont Court.”
“You’re leaving?” Henrietta pulled off her bonnet and pelisse.
Molly took them, her eyes shining. “Tom and I are to be married on Wednesday next. You are invited to the wedding, but…,” she shrugged. “We don’t expect it.”
“Oh, Molly, of course I’ll come. I’m thrilled for you.” She grinned at her maid. “How did it happen?”
“Tom has found work in Prestwood. He came straight to me and asked me again to marry him.” She laughed. “And of course, I said yes.”
“Tom is a good man.”
Molly gazed at her. “You look a trifle peaky. Your trip to France must have exhausted you. The servants talk of nothing else. They were all concerned about you.”
Henrietta rubbed her arms and warmed herself by the fire crackling in the grate. “I am a little tired. A good cup of tea and some of Cook’s cakes will set me to rights.”
“I’ll see to it immediately.” Molly put the things away and hurried from the room.
Molly was so blissful; Henrietta couldn’t tell her about Christian. Just mentioning his name would make her cry again.
* * *
Molly and Tom’s wedding proved to be the highlight of a long, dull week. Henrietta lost herself in the lively wedding breakfast held at the Kings Arms Hotel. Then with the other guests, saw them off to their new life.
The days passed slowly at Beaumont Court as they settled into a quiet routine. Her father disappeared each day to ride his lands with his bailiff, visit tenants and his man of business. When he could, he rode up to London to be with Verity. Winter wasn’t far away the trees in the park bare of leaves. Henrietta galloped her chestnut mare, Topaz, along the canal and through the park, scattering deer. She jumped the horse over fences and hedgerows and arrived back at the house, she, and topaz both weary.
She succeeded in tiring herself physically, but not mentally. What might Christian be doing now? She tried to imagine his life in London. She didn’t know much about him. The government had sent him to France. But now that England and France were at war it was unlikely he’d return there. She hoped not.
His change of heart had been so swift and unexpected; she’d been stunned. Pain clouded her mind. She blamed herself, for her ridiculous dreams of a career on the stage. Funny that she hadn’t the slightest desire for it now. But she still couldn’t accept Christian would give her up so easily. He had displayed such courage in France, and true affection. She was sure his feelings for her were genuine. It left her puzzled and ruined any pleasure she might take from being home again.
The next morning, determined to talk about Christian, she entered the breakfast room where her father was tucking into ham and eggs. “I’ve can’t seem to make sense of why he changed his mind so suddenly,” she said, sipping her tea.
“You said it was a joint decision?” He stabbed his fork into a slice of ham.
She took a warm roll from the basket. Reached for the butter and apricot preserve. “No. It was entirely his.”
Her father shifted in his chair. “Did you ask him why?”
Henrietta’s throat tightened. She’d never been in more need of fatherly advice. “When he suggested our marriage might be a mistake, I was so hurt and shocked I hardly spoke at all.”
“My poor Hetta. I hate to see you suffering.” He pushed back his chair and came to hold her.
“Did I do something wrong?” Her tears made a damp patch on his shirt. Her father had always solved her problems when she was a child. But he could not mend this for her. She was a grown up and must deal with it herself. Even though, at this moment, she yearned to be a little girl again.
“Hetta, has it occurred to you that he might have been thinking of what was best for you?”
“Why? I don’t understand.”
